


The Dragonborn Comes

by Etched_in_Fire



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Companions, Dragons, Explicit Language, Gen, Sexual Content, Thieves Guild, main quest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 97,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etched_in_Fire/pseuds/Etched_in_Fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By a strange stroke of fate, six travelers are saved from untimely executions by the coming of dragons.  In a race against time, the Blades search for the Dragonborn, the one who will save all of Tamriel from the threat of the ancient beasts.  As the world tears itself apart in a civil war, the winds of fate blow... and one who stared into the maw of death will discover a powerful secret that courses through their veins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unbound - Part 1

_Knife_

           Somewhere, a memory called out, the voice of a man in his thirties, thick with the accent from some unknown country. “You wouldn’t last five days in the lands to the north!” His face was scrunched into a bearish snarl, his thick sandy brows almost veiling his beady eyes entirely. She had expected to not leave the inn that evening, and while the sun’s dying light illuminated the room, she found herself pressed into the wall, his greatsword’s tip gracing her sternum with sanguine droplets.  Though try as she might to play the scenario within her head, she was uncertain how she had escaped the second story of that inn in the Imperial City.  She had blinked and missed it all, relying on muscle memory and adrenalin to propel her away from the angered man’s wrath, coinless and impoverished still.  But she had lived, though his words had intrigued her.

            She had challenged her father once, long ago.  Now, she would challenge this nameless man.  The lands to the north, she knew, were not forgiving, but she would manage either way.  With the Thalmor sweeping Cyrodiil like a maid swept a welcoming mat, the pickings were meager.  She didn’t ask for much, only enough to survive, but the extra patrols meant ill-luck for thieves.  The week before she left, she had seen the Argonian who had shared his stolen bread with her.  He was hung from the wall, a crow feasting upon his left eye.

            Her head lolled a moment, and then jerked upright; the memory of the warmer southlands suddenly interrupted by blinding light and distorted images.  Echoing her surprise was the ache of a head injury, and she thought to grab at it to stifle its moans.  She made to, then saw it, withered but taut knots that confined her wrists, binding them in place.  Blinking once then twice, she saw the wavering images snap into place, and the Breton girl sucked in a shocked gulp of air.

            Knife had been arrested before, but this was far different.

            She was sandwiched between two men, both unfamiliar to her.  Swiveling her head to the left, she could tell that this one was not of the same cut as the rest of the men present.  Though he carried the same muscular stature and solemn demeanor, he was ragged, ill-groomed, and barbaric in appearance.  His auburn-brown hair fell like a mane onto his shoulders, his scraggly beard tangled in some places, and silky smooth in others.  His face was painted savagely, and his chin was raised high, as though he owned the very cart they rode upon.  The savage’s body language did not betray the pain that he must’ve felt; a few moments later, she noted how he seemed to adjust his position, an untreated gash decorating his knee and shin.

            To her right was a man of smaller stature, his blonde hair groomed perfectly, as befit a king.  But he turned away from her, stormy eyes cast behind them, at the cart that rolled on behind. She admitted that the space was cramped in the cart.  It seemed as though the guards had wheeled in quite the catch… at least this go around.   

            “Hey!  You!” Her attention was snapped in the direction of a blonde man, muscular, but supposed to herself that described over half of the men present.  “Finally awake.” She blinked a few more times, staring at him and deciding if she recognized him or not.  After a few moments of severe debate, Knife concluded that she probably hadn’t stolen from him before.

            “Yeah?” groggily, the words spilled out, the Breton girl rubbing at the corner of her eye with a dirt-stained shoulder.

            “You were trying to cross the border, right?  Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there,” the blonde man nodded to a man across the packed bench, who was scrawnier and had darker hair.

            “Damn you Stormcloaks!  Skyrim was fine until you came along,” the man swore loudly, glaring at the blonde man at the front of the cart.

            “Stormcloaks?” Knife asked, but her question went unheard, lost among the other thief’s swearing.

            “The Empire was nice and lazy.  If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!” the man continued on, voice seething with rage.  His gaze fell away from the blonde man, a Nord, Knife figured, and he looked at her, desperation clotting his eyes. “You there!  You and me, we shouldn’t be here!  It’s these _Stormcloaks_ the Empire wants.”

            “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, _thief_ ,” the Nord retorted.

            “He’s right, you know.  All I was doing was—” Knife interjected suddenly.

            “Shut up back there!” the guard steering the cart snapped, tossing a stern glare over his shoulder.  Knife settled back into the bench with a heavingsigh, glancing awkwardly to her right, at the man with a rag stuffed into his mouth unceremoniously.  She presumed there was a reason that he was bound so tightly, his hands swelling in an unpleasant violet shade.  She chanced a look at the guard, thinking to make a move to help at least loosen the bonds for him.  But a stern looking glare from a man leading the cart behind them changed her mind, and she exhaled loudly.

            “What’s wrong with him, huh?” the other thief asked, nodding to the gagged man.  Knife responded with the roll of her shoulders into an innocent shrug.  As far as she was concerned, this was a giant misunderstanding, one she could wriggle out of once they arrived at their destination.  The cart ride was only bringing her further into the northern lands, and her feet didn’t mind the break either.  It was their methods that disturbed her, the guards that lurked about their cart seemed edgy and their hands strayed quickly to their blades.  Her stomach churned a warning, and Knife tried to swallow back a feeling of creeping dread.

            “Watch your tongue!” the abruptness of the Nord’s response startled the Breton, and she alarmingly looked at him. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!”

            All of these terms seemed foreign to her, but she supposed that was expected.  Though, she was beginning to become aware of what type of conflict she had accidentally marched into.  Strangely enough, the ambush lasted a second in her memory.  The first few arrows she had mistaken for bandits trying to harm her, and had begun running out of fear.  That was when the first few horses charged in, and when she was suddenly surrounded by uniforms of crimson and navy, she sought an escape from the chaosshe had been thrust into.  That was just moments before the hilt of a blade acquainted itself with the back of her head.  Blinding red had greeted her then, just moments before she sank into the abyss of her own mind.

            “Ulfric?  The Jarl of Windhelm?” the thief sounded intrigued at this point, and Knife could only assume that it meant that the gagged man was important.  “You’re the leader of the rebellion!” Hissed the thief, now more accusatory than interested.  However, his mood changed in an instant, his eyes stretching wide out of terror, “But if they captured _you_ … Oh gods, where are they taking us!?”

            “I don’t know where we’re going… but Sovngarde awaits,” the Nord responded solemnly, leaving only more questions swimming about Knife’s mind.

            “I came to Skyrim to make a better living.  I don’t want any part in your war,” Knife felt the words zing from her lips, glaring from the Nord to Ulfric, her jade eyes wide with alarm. “The Empire isn’t full of murderers.  Surely they’ll at least pause for questioning us before they send us to the gallows.” Her reasoning was drowned out by the other thief’s wails of protest.

            “Hey… What village are you from, horse thief?” the Nord asked, staring at his feet as the wagon rocked the entire group uncomfortably.  Knife found herself leaning against the broad-shouldered, silent man to her right, swearing she could have heard a faint growl of displeasure.

            “Why do you care?” the horse thief snarled defensively.

            “A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home,” the Nord lamented sorrowfully.

            “Well, unfortunately, I’m not a Nord,” Knife responded, lifting up a ways to peer around the silent man’s muscular shoulders.  The gates of a town were opening for them, the city’s walls seeming to appear from nowhere.  She heard the distant shouts and cries from villagers and guards alike, her stomach churning up a second warning. “I’m not dying here,” She stated plainly, casting a look from the blonde Nord to the cart behind them.  She could make out various faces and people- a Dunmer, an Altmer, a Khajiit, and a few more Nords clad similarly to the ones in her own cart.  _They really did just arrest everyone in the immediate area, didn’t they?_ She frowned.

            “Rorikstead,” the horse thief said after a moment, “I’m… I’m from Rorikstead.”

            Somewhere, a guard cried out that the headsmen was waiting and Knife felt whatever food that was still in her stomach threaten to leave her. “Are you still certain about escaping, Breton?” the Nord asked her, voice the epitome of dread in the stilled air.  Knife didn’t answer, not knowing how.

            The carts pulled around into the village square, and the horse thief’s wails resumed, “Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh!  Divines!  Please help me!” But his cries would fall on deaf ears, Knife knew.  She hadn’t believed in the Divines since she was a child.  The world was too cruel for gods.

            Moments passed before the blonde Nord scoffed again, “Look at him.  General Tullius, the military governor.  And it looks like the Thalmor are with him.  Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.”

            “They always do,” the silent man spoke, finally, his voice like the rumble of a bear’s growl. It caught Knife off guard at first, the glint in his small eyes unsettling, but she took comfort knowing that she was not the source of his rage.  His muscles flexed against his bonds, his jaw jutting out sharply against the rest of his facial features.

            “It’s funny.  When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe,” the Nord added bitterly, spitting upon the ground as they cast their gaze about the town.  There were curious eyes peering from windows and doorways, wondering what the Legion had brought to their quaint settlement.

            “What is the name of this town?” Knife asked, voice firm despite her quivering form.  If her pleas were to go ignored, she wanted to know the place where she died.

            “Helgen,” the blonde Nord informed her grimly.

             The cart rattled and creaked as it rolled through the streets, Knife doing her best to keep her head held high.  Back in the Imperial City, she had taken her arrests with charisma and stride.  Some of the merchants joked that she was their favorite thief.  They only joked about that when she was behind bars, however.  Knife supposed they didn’t dare want her to think that they enjoyed her around. The Breton kept her chin up, leafy eyes darting about the Skyrim settlement of Helgen.  She was unaccustomed to such a small village, having been in Cyrodiil for the majority of her life.  

            “Why are we stopping?” the horse thief whimpered, as if still clinging on to hope. 

            “Why do you _think_?” the Nord chastised him, “End of the line.” As the cart rolled to a stop at the town’s square, the Nord glanced at Knife, stern-jawed as the man to her right. “Let’s go.  Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting.”  The second cart pulled up alongside theirs.

            “I’m not sure they’ll be too thrilled to see me,” Knife frowned, rising to her feet. “I’ve long forsaken their ways.”

            “Sovngarde is for the brave,” the Nord responded, “And bravery can be found in many different places.”

            “Stop!  Please!  We’re not rebels!” the horse thief cried out as he stepped from the cart, “I’m not a Stormcloak!”  The guard ignored him, grasping his arm roughly and pushing him towards two other of the Imperial Legion.  “I’m not a Stormcloak!” He repeated his cry but the Imperials seemed to have made up their mind.

            “Face your death with some courage, _thief_ ,” the Nord growled, then muttered, “He’s more woman than you are, Breton.”

            “Is that a compliment, or…” Knife hastily tossed over her shoulder before the Legionnaire grabbed her arm, helping her down from the cart.  She glanced around the walls, the archers stringing their bows as they lurked as shadows did, eyeing the rabble of prisoners hungrily.  

            A guard held her steady by the arm as she let her eyes wander the interior of Helgen, gears turning in her head as she stared at the many faces of women, children, and hard-eyed men.  “Don’t even think about it,” the Imperial sneered into her ear, his hot breath upon her nape.  She gritted her teeth to stifle a stinging comeback, listening to the names as they were being called.

            “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”

            The gagged man stepped forward, walking without the aid of any guards.  He walked as a lion did, his eyes set on the horizon despite the sneers from guards and bystanders.  His bound hands looked wounded from the ropes cutting into his skin, droplets of crimson staining his wrists as he strode to join the other prisoners.  Still gagged, he could not defend himself, and Knife wondered if that had been on purpose.

            “Ralof of Riverwood.”

            The blonde Nord gave Knife a solemn look before stepping forward to follow his rebel leader.

            “Lokir of Rorikstead.”

            The horse thief stepped forward to face the man reading off the names, shaking as a dog did when it was kicked, “No!  I’m not a rebel!  You can’t do this!” he screamed, staring pleadingly into the eyes of the Legionnaire.  The brown-haired Legionnaire said nothing in response, but merely stared at the pleading Lokir, not sure what to do. Knife chanced a glance at Ralof, blinking and missing the first step Lokir took to destiny.

            The horse-thief dashed with surprising swiftness, his feet drumming a frightful tune against the cobblestone pathway as he fled.  He ran past a woman clad in impressive steel armor, her hand snapping to her sword but far too late.  The bound Lokir ran for freedom, and by the time he had cleared the last guard, Knife could almost feel the sensation of glee resonate from him.  “Archers!” commanded a voice, concise and merciless.  Knife blinked and Lokir’s flight was at an end, his body snapping unnaturally as each arrow struck him.  He thudded against the ground, the waves of writhing ceasing, and Knife briefly wondered if he would find the gods he had prayed to.

            “Anyone else feel like running?” the female Legionnaire, a Captain, sneered, her eyes darting to Knife accusingly.  The Breton gave off a roll of her shoulders, then stepped up, the brown-haired man looking up from his list.  Startled, he glanced down before looking up at her once more.

            “Who… are you?”

            “Knife,” she announced, voice ringing into the frosty morning.  When the Legionnaire responded with a blank stare, the Breton finished, “That’s my name.  It’s Knife.”

            “That can’t be right,” the Captain sputtered, eying the list before adding, “That’s not even a name.”

            “Well, take that up with my parents,” Knife retorted back.

            “You from Daggerfall, Breton?  Fleeing from some court intrigue?” the brown-haired man asked, frowning at her dismally. “The Stormcloaks are primarily Nords, I’m confused as to—”

            “I’m from Cyrodiil actually.  Not Daggerfall.  I’m from the Imperial City,” Knife corrected, “And I’m not a Stormcloak.  I’m sure many of these fine men can attest to that.  I came here to--”

            She didn’t even get the words out.  Steel gauntlet strapped to her arm, the woman reared back, striking Knife across the face in a deft, albeit abrupt movement.  The Breton reeled, stumbling a step back as a guard caught her, dragging her towards the other prisoners. As this was happening, Knife could distantly hearwords hissed from the female Legionnaire, “You were with them.  You die with them, _Breton_.”

            As she recovered from the stunning blow, she listened to the myriad of other names.  Glancing at the prisoners being dragged to the front, she squinted, hands curling into fists out of anger.  The first of the prisoners to follow was the man who had been to her right, the silent sentinel that had been riddled with more scars than Knife had fingers and toes.  He stood tall and lean, his beady eyes glaring holes into the Legionnaires.  None dared to escort him, but remained nearby, hands actively gripping sword handles. 

            “Hjalmar Bearblood of Ivarstead,” Hadvar announced, then added darkly, “ _Bandit King_.” There were murmurs following his name, and a few women nearby ushered their children to remain inside.  Hjalmar joined the rest of the prisoners, the bearlike growl still ebbing and flowing within his throat.  Knife decided to give him some space this time.

            “Ailonwe of Skingrad,” Hadvar announced, and a sleek-haired Dunmer stepped up. “Another refu—”

            “The Arch-Mage will hear of this!” she proclaimed loudly, her ebony hair tied back gracefully in a bun, and her crimson eyes mere slits of searing anger.  She was so young- that was the first thing Knife noticed.  Young and bitingly arrogant. “I will _not_ be harmed without compensation!  You ruffians and your sword games!  My family paid good money for me to attend the College, to get an _education_ , which I dare say is more than any of your lot can say for yourself!” She was led to away from Hadvar, still protesting. 

            “Chiran of Elsweyr.  You with one of the trade caravans, Khajiit?  Your kind seems to always find trouble.” Hadvar looked painfully frustrated after his encounter with the Dunmer woman.

Chiran was a Khajiit of great height and slender form.  His eyes were twin ambers glowing against a solemn expression. He was a tiger, impressive in stature and menacing to behold.  Knife immediately felt herself shiver as he was led away, silent.  Each step was met with the jingle of golden hoops that adorned his lynx-like ears.

            When the Altmer was brought before the Captain and the Legionnaire, Hadvar didn’t conceal a look of surprise. “This one isn’t on our lists, Captain,” Hadvar frowned once more, scowl lines deeply set in his features.  For the first time, Knife was able to sneak a glance at the High elf, her skin a rich golden color that went well with her sandy hair. She admitted the elf was eerie in a way, her chin and lower lip badly scarred while one of her eyes remained veiled and gray with death.  The other blazed at the sky, its fiery tones unnaturally ferocious. While the Bandit King had intimidated all, the Altmer was a different sort of fearsome.

            “What’s your name!” accused the Captain, not daring to emphasize that it was a question.

            “You’re not with the Thalmor Embassy, are you high elf?  No, that can’t be right…”  Hadvar relooked his list over, eyes darting about the rolled sheet of parchment furiously. 

            “I asked you a question, elf!” the Captain sneered, her teeth gnashed as she lashed out with an armored foot, striking the Altmer in the shin.  As the golden-haired elf knelt in agony, a single word was sputtered from her lips.

            “What was that?” Hadvar questioned, peering down at her with intrigue.

            “My name is…” the Altmer began, but was abruptly cut off.

            “She goes to the block.  Same with the rest,” the Captain ordered, her eyes a mixture of confusion, apprehension, and even a trace of astonishment.  Knife briefly wondered what that scuffle had been about, but figured it was not any of her business.  Not that it would matter much longer anyways—the Captain seemed to be a tad bit violent for her tastes.

            “Ulfric Stormcloak!” bellowed a man much older than Knife was.  His hair was salted with age, his skin a lush caramel shade that told of Imperial blood. Ralof had referred to him as a general, but in reality, Knife saw no difference between him and the other Imperials that stood around the town square.  His nose seemed especially scrunched in disdain for the rebel king, his voice like iron being stricken at the anvil.  The unsettling churn of Knife’s stomach confirmed her dislike for the Legionnaire general.

            “Some here in Helgen call you hero,” his voice boomed like an announcer’s, as if this was all a show to him, “But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to _murder_ his king and _usurp_ his throne.” With the words still hanging in the air, Tullius continued vehemently, “You started this war!  Plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now, the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!”

            The words had scarcely been spoken when a cry resounded through the pine-filled valleys of southern Skyrim. Though it made little sense to her, she cast her eyes skyward, towards the greyness that the gods had cast over their day of death.  Knife saw nothing past the bleakness of the wintery morning, and exhaled loudly, wisps of steamy breath dancing around her opened mouth. There was a cry somewhere in the distance, like a ghoul from a nightmare, and as it faded into obscurity, a single voice broke the tension, “What was that?” It was Hadvar who asked, and after a moment’s thought, Tullius responded.

            “It’s nothing.  Carry on.”

            But somehow, Knife knew that it was _something_.

            “Yes, General Tullius!  Priestess!  Give them their last rites!” the Captain barked, sounding all the more like an attack dog for the General as time ticked on.  

            The priestess looked as every other priestess did in the lands of Tamriel- garbed from head-to-toe in the garments of a holy person.  Long ago, a much younger Knife had respected the women who devoted themselves to the gods.  But the present Knife was unimpressed.  It was a safe life, the existence of a priestess, and with safety came boringness.  At least, that was how she thought of it.

            Extending a hand over the block, the priestess began, her voice melodic and serene despite the bloody nature of their gathering, “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divine upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved…”

            “FOR THE LOVE OF TALOS, SHUT UP AND LET’S GET THIS OVER WITH!” roared a nearby Nord, so abrupt that Knife nearly jumped from her skin. Headstrong, fearless, he strode to the block, as if it were a meaningless stump involved in a meaningless task.  “Come on!  I haven’t got all morning!” Shoved to his knees, he retained his dignity still, in a way Knife couldn’t quite define, and rested his head on the block as if to sleep there.  “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials.  Can you say the same?” A stillness ensued, and Knife saw the headsmen hoist the blade with a firm grasp.  He was practiced, she knew.  From where she was among the crowd, she could tell he had done this a thousand times.  It gave off a bit of hope that it’d be quick at least.

The blade that was lifted was ebony, shimmering a fell, unnatural glint as it whisked down.  The Nord’s head was gone instantaneously, and his body fell away, thudding against the permafrost She tried to tell herself that it was just a magic act, like something she had seen as a child.  But it wasn’t, and the snide part of her recognized this.  Though she stood still, the world was moving all about her, fear creeping up her spine, nipping at her nape.  Ungracefully, she swayed, face paling and eventually greening.

There were shouts all around her.  She wasn’t sure who they were from or who they were for.  But they were there, pounding in her ears as his body rolled over, headless, the stump of a neck cut short with raw, exposed flesh.  Her left knee gave out, and the guard next to her fought to support her, grunting and snapping some insults she didn’t hear in her ear.

            She was a thief.  She didn’t kill people.  She didn’t want this.

            “Next, the Khajiit!” the Captain declared with as much authority as she could muster.  The wind howled as the tiger was brought forward.  Another unnatural cry shrieked in the wilderness of Skyrim.

            And quietly, Knife waited for death.


	2. Unbound - Part 2

_Chiran_

Chiran was not often described as nostalgic, but the events leading to the block had been quite nostalgic. He reflected on his childhood, from the moment he had picked up his first weapon to that day when he had been walking mindlessly to anywhere but Elsweyr. That was when the ambush had happened, as quick as a crack of lightning in a stormy sky. The caravan trails had been rough on bad days, and Chiran was accustomed to the sudden shifts in atmosphere. His bow had been at his hand in the matter of seconds, his right hand stringing an arrow. The first had been lost in the chest of an Imperial, blood-soaked and too lodged to be retrieved. He had settled with grabbing the fallen man’s quiver and unleashing a string of arrows from his newfound stock, hitting every color that flew by him. Navy perished, crimson fell. It was all the same to him.

He didn’t delude himself in the ways of his people. In all reality, the idea of having his remains returned to Elsweyr only annoyed him, as that was the place he had hated. Chiran had found home on the road from the arching boughs of Cyrodiil to the alien continent of Morrowind. The road was far homier than the sands of his birthplace. He did not want to join the sands of desolation and destruction. His people were a blind, ignorant race, he knew. Often they were frowned upon, thought of being weaker and stupider, but Chiran had decided to prove the fallacy wrong. They had searched him before they had stripped him, eager to see if they could bust him for skooma possession as well. He had disappointed them, but supposed he was still sent off to the block because no one would miss another cat wandering the forests.

Their arrogance offended him.

The display of blood flashing into the air was unimpressive to the Khajiit, whose amber eyes smoldered with burning rage. His arms tightened against his bonds, and his tail lashed out of rage. He fought back a hiss of disapproval, his fangs visible as his lips rippled with a growl.

“Next, the Khajiit!”

As the guard grasped his arm, he gnashed his teeth and took a wary step forward. “Come on, prisoner. To the block. Nice and easy,” he heard one of the Legionnaires say. Chiran stepped slowly, breathing in the fresh air and fixing his eyes upon the block. They had not even bothered to move the other Stormcloak’s body yet. He hissed low, under his breath out of spite, disgusted at their arrogance. A few steps later, and Chiran found himself looking down at the block, decorated by a smear of blood. Swiftly, the guard behind him sent a foot into his spine, and Chiran sank to the ground, his knees thudding against the dirt, bumping into the freshly cut corpse before him. A firm hand thrust his head towards the block, and he felt the blood press into the fur of his cheek.

He looked up at the man, his face concealed by a black mask, eyes burning amber into the face of his to-be-killer. Chiran didn’t yell, didn’t say a word, didn’t even seem to breathe as the axe came up, a distant rumble of what he perceived to be thunder not even phasing him. The Khajiit stared into the face of death, waiting to see which one of the priests had been right. Would he see the gods of his parents, would he see the gods of the pretentious Altmer? Or would he simply see nothing at all? Chiran was as curious as he was full of gnawing dread.

But the axe never fell onto him, a deeper, louder roar splintering the sky as the clouds began to dance unnaturally, the heat of fire searing overhead. Chiran saw the axeman fall, crumpling to the ground like a ragdoll, the executioner axe raddling away with drowned-out clanks. Chiran pressed himself into the block, the only stable thing, almost tasting the Stormcloak’s blood this time. His amber eyes saw wavering visions, a set of alien sanguine eyes looming down at him. Chiran blinked, his sight uncertain of the chaos around him as shrieks replaced the hateful insults.

When the ground did settle, Chiran allowed himself to focus in on the moment, lifting his head from the executioner’s block to see the madness that had begun. Overhead, a monstrosity flew, carried on black wings that seemed to span across the entire heavens. Chiran crouched low, his tail flicking and ears drawing back out of fear. What was it? Disoriented, he stumbled, trying to move around the block and the limp shell that was the Stormcloak. There were words being shouted at him- he heard familiarity, and he strove to follow it, blinking with every fast-paced step as fire rained from the sky.

He stared into the face of the Nord they had called Ralof as the blonde beckoned him to a nearby tower. Chiran felt the heat of a nearby fire blaze near his tail as he ducked into the stone tower. Panting, feeling grim and dust in his lungs, the Khajiit wheezed, his fur standing on end. Blinking, the tiger cast his gaze at the others who had escaped the onslaught from the ebony leviathan. They were prisoners, mostly, clad in the blue of the Stormcloak rebellion. But there were others, he noticed- the Breton girl that had been near him in the crowd of prisoners as well as another Nord with a grim set jaw.

“Jarl Ulfric,” Ralof said shakily, the screech of a woman slicing through the air. “What was that thing? Could the legends be true?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” responded the man Chiran assumed to be Jarl Ulfric, clad in armor and furs. He cast a glance around the tower, “We need to move. Now!” The Jarl did not have to tell the tiger twice.

“Up through the tower, let’s go!” Ralof agreed with a hardy nod.

“We’ll have to carry this one on our backs…” a Stormcloak soldier remarked, kneeling before a wounded brethren. Chiran looked down at the blood-soaked warrior, stricken by a fireball, no doubt, and proceeded to walk on. A man who could not walk would not survive the burning catastrophe reigning outside. He might have put the bleeding warrior out of his misery had he the weapon to do so. Chiran followed the independent Nord up the stairs. Somewhere, Ulfric cried out.

“Come on! Before the dragon brings down the whole tower!”

“Dragon…?” Chiran heard the Breton girl whisper frantically, huddled in her tattered brown robes. She was so small compared to the others, all Nords with broad shoulders and shoulder-length hair. They were accustomed to the hard life of the north. She seemed soft. She seemed weak. Chiran would not bet on her survival.

The outer wall erupted in a spray of dust and smoke, and Chiran fell to the ground, the gaping maw of the ebony dragon a mere few feet from him. Miraculously, the Breton girl dodged the searing flames, throwing herself against the wall with a shrill feminine scream. Chiran was aware of nothing at the time but the sound of fire whooshing into the tower, tickling his nose. But just as soon as it had begun, it was over, the massive black head disappeared.

“The stairs are blocked,” Chiran heard the independent Nord growl, his voice guttural and animalistic. “What now?”

“See the inn on the other side?” Ralof suggested suddenly, pointing through the thick black smoke. “Jump through the roof and keep going!”

“What!?” the Breton sputtered, staring at him as though he were insane, but Ralof waved her aside dismissively. Glancing at Chiran, the Nord pleaded, “Go, we’ll follow when we can!” The tiger nodded, facing the burning inn and feeling the pillaring smoke beckon him. With a few steps to prepare and a leap, Chiran was airborne, subjected to the death cries of men, women, and children as he lunged. Crashing through burning wood, he hit the floor of the inn with a roll, glancing upward at the tower he had fallen from with a slight wince. It could have been worse, he told himself, but he tore himself from that line of thinking.

He began searching for an exit, scouring the top floor of the inn with a pair of surprisingly calm eyes. The gap leading to the first floor was quickly found, and by this time, the Breton girl had made her leap with a fair bit of encouragement from Ralof. The others were thudding into the ground behind the tiger. As he emerged from the burning inn, he caught sight of the Nord, Hadvar, who had asked for his name, battle-weary and calling for a young boy.

“Haming, you need to get over here, now!” And as the boy ran to greet the officer, Hadvar praised him. Split seconds passed and the ebony dragon landed in a catlike crouch, crimson eyes fixed on the child that was just yards away. “Gods, get back!”

Chiran ducked behind a nearby stone building, so burnt that he couldn’t recognize what it had been intended to be. The Nords had not noticed him yet, and Chiran crept closer, amber eyes locking onto the nearby Altmer. One of the other prisoners, if he recalled correctly, following the Nord soldier as a pup would follow a young boy. Tossing a look over his shoulder, Hadvar barked out at the other Nords, “Gunmar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense.”

This was your doing, he wanted to say to the Legionnaire, a servant to the damnable Thalmor rats. Chiran stood there, watching Hadvar plunge into the thick of the battle, the Dunmer girl following close behind. The tiger smiled, despite the dissension unfolding around him. His heart had learned to stop hammering so quickly, his mind suddenly at ease as the dragon soared overhead, a fiery breath razing the village. _This is the punishment for arrogance._ And Chiran did not pity the Empire.


	3. Unbound - Part 3

_Synestra_

 

            She had seen the beast when it had landed. A few thundering moments later, Synestra had been lost among the chaos, collapsing onto the ground.  Was it a stone that had struck her or something else?  She’d never know.  One minute, she saw the executioner bearing over the Khajiit, axe in hand, the next, the dragon was atop the tower, screaming down fiery terror upon the crowd.  Next, Synestra found herself in a terrible reverie.

            Her dreams made no sense, flooded with the cries of death, and the decaying of plants.  She dreamed her eye was back, full of color and her vision was repaired.  Her image was not scarred, not so old, not haggard by the burdens of life.  The Altmer saw herself in summer days, wearing dresses she had never owned and living in a house that was far too grand for her family.  Maybe the gods were showing her what might have been, had the cards been dealt differently.  Either way, Synestra’s dreaming was interrupted as she bolted upright, temples throbbing from the impact of some unknown object.

            Hands still bound, the high elf pushed herself to her feet, feeling dizzier with each step.  She blinked, the red haze of fire and death ebbing at her good eye’s vision.  Silently, she pleaded to the gods that she would not lose her other eye.  For a moment, she focused on breathing, and then she began to hobble towards the closest building. The world spun, corkscrewing and flashing crimson.  The high elf found her footing came better when she didn’t think about it.  Natural muscle memory guided her to a fallen Legionnaire, an Imperial with young dead eyes and a face wrought in terror.  Her hair clung to her cheeks as she stared down at him with her sole eye, the massive chunk torn from his jaw revealing pearly bone.

            She had seen his likeness before countless times.  Handsome, young face, had he kept the half the dragon had taken. His eyes glossed over differently than her own eye—dead to the world, but seeing glimpses of the next.  Perhaps he would fall into Oblivion, perhaps he would be raised by the gods.  Synestra didn’t know.  When they had taken her eye with fire, she hadn’t seen gods-- only the searing white of destruction.

            The Altmer knelt, her bound hands grasping the hilt of the Imperial’s sword.  Sliding the hilt to her knees, she propped the blade so that its edge was skyward, and began to rub the thick rope that bound her against the sharp blade.  A few moments later and the half-blind elf was free, picking up the Imperial’s sword as she rose.  Somewhere, a child was crying, and another fireball exploded into a thousand flaming shards. She looked over her shoulder, the scars on her chin pulling her lip into a permanent scowl.  The Altmer had seen maelstroms before, but this was a nightmare.Combat was a controlled chaos, a dance between two opposing forces.  This was madness.

            She ran forward, blindly, but anywhere had to be better than where she was.  She squeezed between two houses as one of them began to collapse, and Synestra felt the hot breath of fire upon her nape.  Ducking low, she leapt over the burnt corpse of what seemed to be a woman, and carried on without batting an eye.  The black dragon circled overhead, its roars like earth-shattering thunder over the burning village.  It was hard not to look at it; Synestra acknowledged its power, but also strangely found the creature magnificent.

            “Still alive prisoner?  Keep close to me if you want to stay that way!” Hadvar’s cry made her head snap in his direction.  She beelined for him, sword at hand.  Though his eyes grazed over the Legionnaire sword, he didn’t ask her how she had gotten it. As swiftly as he had addressed her, Hadvar turned and began sprinting. Synestra followed him along the stony wall that kept Helgen safe from Skyrim’s usual dangers.   As she doggedly fought to keep up with him, she saw his head thrust back towards the sky, “Stay close to the wall!” He screamed, throwing himself against it.

            Synestra chanced a glance upward as a massive, leathery wing came down between her and Hadvar.  Freezing, the Altmer found her breath gone, held firm within her throat.  The sound of fire whooshing from the dragon’s maw filled her ears. Knuckles tightening around the hilt of her sword, she pressed herself against the wall, staring at the massive ebony wing that was less than a yard from her face.  As she began to raise the sword to strike at it, the wing was gone as the beast suddenly took flight.  “Quickly!  Follow me!” Hadvar shouted, and Synestra obeyed without question.

            “General Tullius, over here!” she heard from somewhere in the mayhem.  It was hard to tell where the voices were coming from.  She heard cries, and then they fell away, fading into the raging of the fire and the snarling of the dragon.  It was a kind of chaos she had not heard in years. 

            “What does it take to kill this monster?”

            “Come on, give me your hand!  I’m getting you out of here!”

            “Keep your eyes on it!”

            “How in Oblivion do we kill this thing!?”

            Around the corner of a smoldering house, General Tullius stood, a handful of archers shooting their flimsy arrows at the soaring beast. _Futile,_ the Altmer thought.  It would take more than a few iron arrows to fell the monster. “Hadvar! Into the keep!  Soldiers, we’re leaving!”

              Leaving—Synestra wondered how many would be abandoned to the dragon’s wrath if the Legion were to withdraw.  She didn’t want to think about it, though she knew it was all useless.  Another round of arrows whistled vainly into the sky, the reptile soaring almost lazily over.  It was taunting them, she thought, its massive, sinewy form not bothered by their pinprick arrows.  Hadvar grabbed her shoulder, a wordless look to her telling her to follow, and Synestra obeyed without hesitation, chasing him away from the futile battle.

            As they ran, a collection of survivors cut their path from the left-hand side.  Synestra thought they were more Legionnaires, until she recognized the blue garb of one Stormcloak soldier, followed eagerly by the lynx-eared Khajiit.  “Ralof!” Hadvar shouted, his voice seething with rage, “You damn traitor, out of my way!” The Stormcloak brandished a war axe, and Synestra saw the Khajiit’s lip curl into a sneer.  Behind them, another Nord was helping a Breton girl over a pile of burning rubble. Synestra recognized them both to be prisoners as well. _By the looks of it, there’s more surviving prisoners than soldiers.  Ironic,_ Synestra thought darkly, _that the ones who were supposed to die live awhile longer._

            “We’re escaping, Hadvar,” the Stormcloak declared, knuckles tightening around the handle of his axe, “You’re not stopping us this time.”

            “Damn it…” Hadvar readied his blade, pointing it at the renegade Nord.

            Synestra grabbed his arm, “We don’t have time for your war, Nord.  We have to leave, now!” She insisted, staring at the young Legionnaire.  Conflict crossed his face, and the Nord fought with himself for a moment before he relented.

            “Fine…” Gnashing his teeth together, he tossed a final shout to Ralof, “I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!” With that, the Stormcloak and his allies departed, dashing for a nearby entrance to the keep.  “With me, prisoner.  Let’s go!” Hadvar rushed for a tower, crumbling but not yet burned by the dragon’s breath.  He opened the wooden door, and bade her to follow.

            Synestra hurried inside, the wooden door closing to partially block out the horrible screeches outside.  She stumbled, glancing down at her leg, marked with crimson blood near the knee.  Briefly, she wondered if this was her blood, and stopped to inspect.  “Are you wounded?” Hadvar asked, a touching amount of concern in his voice.

            “Perhaps…” Synestra responded, “I can heal myself.  Take a look around, see what’s in the-” _Room_ would have been the word she used to finish the statement, but she stopped, her single good eye scouring the inside of the keep.  Breathing, her pointed ears detected it coming from somewhere nearby.  It was hurried and panicked, like the sound of a scared child.  Synestra shared a glance with Hadvar before he approached a nearby cluster of barrels.

            Sword in hand, he crept, fair brown hair sticking to his face and neck from the sweat and grime of battle.  “Who’s there?” He called out, steel sword pointed down at whoever hid behind the crates. Synestra saw his face change from stern to surprised, his hand snapping out and grabbing something that ducked down.  A gray-skinned hand reached out, slapping at his arm but to no avail.  He hoisted a woman up, her ebony hair covering her face.  

            “Let go!  Let go!  Unhand me, you brutish creature!” she wailed, in a strikingly whiny voice that Synestra recalled from the cart. The Dunmer was released, falling in a sobbing heap at Hadvar’s feet, her crimson eyes cascading tears as she said, “Don’t let the dragon eat me!  Don’t let it get me!”

            “Ah…” Hadvar backed a step awkwardly, glancing helplessly at the high elf for advice.  Synestra, however, was less consoling than the Nord, her brow furrowed as she stepped up to seize the dark elf by her upper arm.

            “On your feet, girl.  And rid yourself of that attitude.  We’re not going to kill you,” the high elf barked, her scars seeming to deepen with her scowl. “We plan to escape this…” How to describe the situation?  “… _Ordeal_ , and the more that survive, the better.”

            The Dunmer stared at her with glistening, childish eyes, and Synestra guessed she couldn’t have been more than seventeen.  _Young_ , she mused, _like Hadvar.  Like the Imperial boy that owned this blade I carry._ She felt old, but tried not to let it show, turning instead to look at Hadvar, “We’ll need armor.  This is a keep, right?  Did they keep weapons here?”

            “I’ll check,” Hadvar nodded and vanished into a nearby hall.  Synestra turned to look at the Dunmer woman.

            “What’s your name, girl?” she tried to soften her voice, but found it impossible.  Somewhere, the old soldier was kicking in, and she couldn't find an ounce of sympathy for the dark elf.

            “Ailonwe Kevarathi,” the dark elf answered.

            “Kevarathi.” Synestra mused, “Your family seems to find trouble.  Though I dare say not much of your clan has been heard of since Halia Kevarathi saved Cyrodiil from the threat of Mehrunes Dagon two centuries ago.”

            “I was sent to learn magic.  At the College of Winterhold,” Ailonwe sniffled, wiping at her sharp nose with a hankerchief she had somehow kept track of during the chaos. Synestra smiled wryly- the girl had a pretty face, but she was naïve to the world’s ways.

            “I remember,” Synestra replied, hand resting on the hilt of the fallen Legionnaire’s blade.  A sting in her knee reminded her of the wound she needed to attend to, “You gave the guards a bit of grief when they tried to pull you from the cart.”  Ailonwe blushed, looking down at her torn and dirt-stained robes.  Synestra sat in a nearby chair, running her palm over her knee cap.  She willed for her fingers to work over the wound, a golden glow about her hand as she healed the small gash.  Without even looking at the Dunmer, the high elf continued, “My name is Synestra and the Nord seems to be named Hadvar.  I’ll try to see to it that you get that education in Winterhold that you were sent for, Ailonwe.  But we’ll have to work together in order to get through this.”

            “I know a bit of magic already…” Ailonwe said quietly, “If it helps.”

            “It should,” Synestra nodded, eye turning to Hadvar as he walked over, carrying an assortment of items in his arms.

            “I found these,” he stated, setting down some armor on a nearby desk.  “There’s a few weapons in the next room if that blade doesn’t suit you, elf.  The armor will protect you better than those clothes will, but I don’t know about the fit.”

            “I took this blade from one of your comrades, who was felled by the dragon,” Synestra stated, “I’d like to use it to avenge him.”

            “Take it, I’m sure he won’t be needing it,” Hadvar responded, “Perhaps it’ll serve you better.”  Synestra nodded, picking through the armor carefully.  She was the tallest of the three, standing almost a head taller than most of the Nords.  The Dunmer girl wasn’t terribly short either, but was very fragile in physique.  She selected the lighter armor and handed it to Ailonwe.

            “This’ll be yours, girl,” Synestra said, “Take a dagger or sword if you wish, whatever you’d be best at wielding.”

            “A dagger might suffice.  I’ve only ever done magic…” Ailonwe admitted, but donned the armor nonetheless.

            Synestra was strapping on her bracers when she caught Hadvar’s pensive gaze, staring at the stone wall.  His eyes were glistened over with what the elf believed to be tears.  He wiped at his jaw with his wrist, smearing a black streak of grime on his face “Was that really a dragon?” he muttered darkly, “The bringers of the End Times?” The question hung in the air, and Synestra distracted herself by flexing her arm within the leather bracer.  “We should keep moving.”

            “I’ll take the front.  You two, cover me,” Synestra said without hesitation, looking at the two. Hadvar opened his mouth, and the high elf expected a protest, but he merely nodded, breath whooshing from his lungs.

            “All right.”

            The high elf approached the door, opening it with a hand.  As it creaked open, she stared down the corridor at the red on black Imperial crest. Taking a wary step into the hall, she listened, hearing nothing but the piercing silence.  Even the battle outside seemed to have quieted, and that disturbed Synestra most of all.  Hand never leaving the hilt of her sword, she crept down the hall, each foot placed with the utmost care.  She was catlike, regal in her uneasy gait down the jagged corridor, ears seeking what she hoped would be clamor of more survivors.

            She turned to the right, down another dimly-lit hallway that offered nothing to the three survivors.  A few empty baskets lay scattered about, tossed over haphazardly by the rumbles from outside.  Synestra did not shed her cautious gait as she approached the end of the grim corridor- a gate barring their path.  She peered curiously through the wooden bars, light filtering in from the next room. _This place is like a maze, I fear,_ thought the high elf to herself as she stared at the gate.  As her eyes began to search for a switch to open it, voices trickled into the room accompanied with the hurried padding of feet.

            “We need to get moving! That dragon is tearing up the whole keep!” a voice shouted.  From the accent, Synestra presumed it was a Nord, her slender fingers tightening around the hilt of the sword until her knuckles turned a pale gold.

            A second voice, that of a woman’s responded, “Just give me a minute… I’m out of breath…” Synestra’s head jerked in Hadvar’s direction as he pulled a lever down, the gate beginning to slide down to permit them entry. She began to hold up a hand to stop him, but it was too late.

            “Hear that? Stormcloaks.  Maybe we can reason with them,” Hadvar suggested, stepping from the shadows. Synestra shook her head promptly, holding out her free hand as the Nord began to greet the two Stormcloaks.  The high elf felt her stomach tighten and as Hadvar began to extend a greeting to them, the woman turned, brandishing her axe in an instant.  Hadvar began to fall back a step in shock when Synestra lurched forward, drawing the fallen legionnaire’s blade in one swift motion and cutting the rebel from right hip to left shoulder, an unpleasant spray of blood staining the gold-skinned warrior’s face.

            As the woman perished with a choked gurgle, her counterpart, a blonde Nord man of his mid-twenties, swung his greatsword at Synestra’s head.  As she ducked under the blade, she swiped at the Stormcloak’s kneecap with her sword, but missed by a mere inch.  It was a violet streak of lightning that caught the man off guard, courtesy of the Dunmer girl who lingered behind Hadvar with fear in her eyes.  She recoiled as he shrieked in agony, rearing back with his sword still in hand.  As it came down towards Synestra, she parried with her blade, and as he struggled to heft it back up, Hadvar’s blade found the man’s throat.

            “Girl,” Synestra whirled upon the Dunmer, fiery eye a stern blaze directed at her.  Blade still dripping with blood, she growled, “ _Don’t_ hesitate.  Because the moment you do, you will die in this place.” Her growl died away as quickly as it had risen into her throat, the girl horrified as Hadvar unsheathed his sword from the Stormcloak’s throat.  As the girl staggered away to retch and vomit, the Altmer scanned the room, all the while remarking to Hadvar, “And you ought to know better than to trust others so easily.”

            “I thought… the dragon…” Hadvar mumbled, abashed as he sheathed his blade.

            “You just tried to cut off their heads—they are _not_ happy with you,” Synestra retorted flatly,  “And they’ll be trying to escape.  I don’t blame them.  The dragon is a perfect diversion.”

            “If they stand in our way, I will cut them down,” Hadvar replied, voice fighting for firmness.  She nodded abruptly in response, feeling a twinge of guilt in her chest, but strictly reminding herself that this was a crisis.  They could not afford to trust the rebels to aid them, no matter what dire circumstance they were all in. “Come on, this way,” Hadvar began walking towards the far side of the room, to the next hall, which Synestra quietly hoped provided more safety than the last.  The torchlight didn’t reach the entirety of the hall, and Synestra followed Hadvar in silence, Ailonwe taking up the rear with her still fearful red eyes.

            Hadvar opened the door into the next hall, drawing back suddenly as a Stormcloak rebel turned to face him, face wrought with savage wrath.  This time, he did not hesitate as the rebel withdrew his warhammer from its sling, and Hadvar drove his blade deep into the man’s chest, pulling it out and greeting the next Stormcloak soldier with the all-too-familiar clamor of blades meeting.  Synestra was next into the room, leaping over the freshly-made corpse and sending a fiery burst of magic at the soldier.  As he crumpled to the ground in a haze of death and flames, Hadvar looked to Ailonwe, who was pointedly avoiding even looking at the corpses that scattered about the ground.

            “An old storeroom. See if you can find some potions.  Might come in handy,” he said to her, and she quickly obeyed, scouring the old, ill-patched containers for various bottles.  As she did this, Synestra kicked at one of the Stormcloak corpses, eyeing his armor warily.

            _They’ve already reached this side of the fort, have they?  I wonder if they are acting as a single unit or if they’re as confused and lost as we are,_ thought the high elf to herself as she walked about the room, which was very open and contained a table and a hearth. As Ailonwe gathered potions, she took the moment to breathe and relax, one of her gloved hands running through her shoulder-length golden hair.

            “I’ve found a number of potions and salves for wounds,” Ailonwe said meekly, and Synestra mused about how her previous confidence had almost made her into a different girl entirely.  She nodded a silent thanks to her, and Hadvar told her to keep the medicine.

            They descended quietly into the next portion of the fort, the uncanny silence putting the trio into an uneasy creep down the stairs and into the bowels of the fortress.  “The torture room.  Gods, I wish we didn’t need these…” Hadvar murmured, and Synestra felt her stomach tighten.  _I have seen worse,_ she convinced herself as they descended into the room, the stench of death overwhelming.  Ailonwe coughed loudly, and Synestra heard her stifle a cry of horror.

            The ground was soaked red, an array of bodies decorating the stained floor.  Shackles hung, unlocked and limp upon the walls, the cages held decaying bodies, and the freshly torn-out throat of the master torturer was still cascading with life blood as his eyes stared at the ceiling.

            “By the Eight, what happened here?” Ailonwe whimpered, “Why is everyone…?”

            “Dead?” Hadvar asked, “I’d say it was the dragon, but…”

            “These are blade marks,” Synestra shook her head, looking over the nearest corpse- that of a soldier no different than Hadvar.  She grimaced and shook her head, “We were not the first down here.  I would suggest it was the Stormcloaks.”

            “You would be correct, elf,” a voice announced from the shadows, and Synestra’s blade was in hand within a second, pointed at the stranger as he emerged from an adjacent corridor.

            She lowered the blade as soon as she saw his Legionnaire uniform, crimson and silver-- heavy and yet study.  He removed his bloodied helmet, his hair black and his skin darkly tanned even for an Imperial.  The Altmer did not know the man, assuming he had been at her near-execution, but had been sent fleeing when the black beast had begun its siege.  He was a man in his prime, hair cropped just short of his shoulders and eyes piercing with the same ferocity of as the ice of Skyrim.  But she did not doubt he was an Imperial, not with the hooked nose and his build.

            “Prefect Valerius…” Hadvar’s eyes widened, “You’re alive?”

            “Yes, alive and well enough,” the Imperial answered with the slight courteous bow of the head, “I followed a group of rebels through here, but I lost them when one of the walls caved in.  They must have come through here.  Two Nords, a Breton, and a Khajiit—the prisoners from before.” He paused, awkwardly glancing at Ailonwe and Synestra before continuing, “Doesn’t matter.  Tullius has ordered us to evacuate and regroup in Falkreath.”

            “Do you know if this fort has any tunnels that will lead us out?” Synestra inquired.

            “I can’t say, this is my first time in Helgen, and hopefully it will also be my last.  I can’t say there’s much left of the town,” the Prefect replied with the shake of his head. “Most of these ancient forts have some escape route, however.  I would not be surprised if there was one through the dungeons.”

            “Then we’ll look,” Synestra nodded firmly.

            “Will you come with us, Prefect?” Hadvar asked.

            “There’s nowhere else to go,” Valerius responded darkly and a distant roar of the black monstrosity outside sent a chill down Synestra’s spine.


	4. Unbound - Part 4

Knife

 

            The bloodbath in the dungeons still clawed at her as they descended into the depths of Skyrim, the cave none the more friendly than the burning outside town of Helgen. Seldom a word had been said between the four travelers, except for the formation that had been decided upon by Ralof after the dungeons had been cleared of Legionnaires.  Ralof took the lead, though he was not any calmer than she was.  The other Nord, Hjalmar, was close behind his kinsman, his almond eyes scrutinizing every inch of the caves as though he expected the black serpent to pop out from one of the crevices.  The Khajiit, Chiran, took the back, looming behind her silently as they stole through the damp caves.

            They were better equipped since the bloodbath, and though she reminded herself of that constantly, the sight of the tiger-marked Khajiit ripping the torturer’s throat out with a set of claws still made her queasy. She played with the two knives she had taken, both rusty iron and ill-crafted.  They were a better source of comfort and familiarity than a source of protection.  Ralof favored a war axe, which he had taken from an unlucky Imperial soldier.  Hjalmar had selected a warhammer from a fallen Stormcloak, and seemed to have no issues throwing it about in his hands.  Chiran had appeared in the melee with a bow during some point, and had kept it in hand since.

            Knife supposed she wasn’t completely and totally useless.  Before her days as a thief, she had been instructed in magic, though she had seldom paid attention after her tutor had taught her to make fire with her hands.  Something about the flames had sparked her curiosity and apart from the basic healing spell, she had not bothered to study anything else. 

            They were within the caverns still, and had been for some time, following a trickle of a stream that seemed to be just as eager to escape as they were.  Ralof’s audible sigh awoke Knife from her thoughts, and she noted the river drop off before him. “A waterfall.  We’ll have to make our way around,” Ralof remarked to the traveling company, to which the only reply was a grunt from the stone-faced Hjalmar.  Ralof took an immediate right, and as Knife followed, the musty scent of the caverns made her face draw itself up into a grimace.  There was something about the murky caves that she disliked.

            They descended in an instant as soon as Ralof set foot into their territory, silent and lethal.  Knife, at the verge of the small overhang, stopped abruptly, a gasp tearing from her lips.  _No, no, no, no, no, no, no…_ Chiran bumped into her, grabbing her with a firm hand so she did not fall into the pit as the spiders fell from the web-clustered ceiling.  Ralof jerked back, withdrawing his war axe quickly and planting it into the head of the nearest one.  Hjalmar gave out a horrendous war cry as he charged, fearless, at the arachnids.  As he swung the warhammer, Knife found herself clutching Chiran’s arm as he notched an arrow beneath his forefinger, his ears back as he wobbled. 

            _No, no, no, no, no!_

            “ _What are you doing?”_ She heard him hiss angrily, but all the Breton girl could do was bury her face into his muscular shoulder, unable to look and flinching at each sound that resonated from the battle.  The Khajiit struggled to swat her away, but she persisted, vice grip around his arm.  After a second of resistance, the stern Khajiit gave up.  She heard Chiran let loose an arrow or two, but her mantra continued—loud and clear within her panicked mind. _No, no, no_ … Though her eyes were shut, she saw their faces, their fangs, their _legs_ , mercilessly skittering about the floor in hopes to find a new victim.  The musty scent was overwhelming her and she found herself clinging to the Khajiit for stability.

            _No, no, no, no!_

            “Girl, what are you doing?” She heard Ralof, but his voice seemed distant, even as he asked her again and touched her shoulder gently.  Knife shrieked, swatting at him with a hand and gripping Chiran’s arm all the tighter. “It’s over!” He yelled, and Knife did not believe him.

            “Kill them, keep them AWAY!” she cried out, burning tears in her eyes as she pressed her nose into Chiran’s dark orange fur.  It was the Khajiit who finally dislodged her from his torso, scowling all the while she struggled and flailed, entire body trembling.

            “What in Talos’ name is wrong with her?” Hjalmar snapped, his voice that of an angered bear.  He sounded out of breath, she heard, and then it dawned on her that the sound of _unnatural_ legs against the stone floor had disappeared.  She dared to open her eyes, staring at the others with wide, trembling eyes.

            “Are they gone?” Knife demanded at once, voice shaking as she looked at Ralof.  He seemed no worse for the wear- not bloodied any more than he had been. “Did you _kill_ them?”

            “The spiders?  Aye, we did…” Ralof looked back over his shoulder, “See—”

            “NO!” Knife yelled and covered her eyes again, “I don’t want to see.” And after an uncomfortable silence followed, she explained in a sputter, “I’m phobic.  Of spiders.”  She heard Hjalmar snort contemptuously, and felt her neck redden.

            “You… don’t have to look, I guess,” Ralof said awkwardly.

            “Either way, we need to keep moving,” Hjalmar leaned against his warhammer, his wild mane pushed back into chaotic order by a grimy, large hand. 

            “What if there’s more?” Knife whimpered, but the Bandit King would hear no more from her.

            “ _Then we’ll kill them_.”

            “Come on.  They’re dead,” Ralof tried to assure her.  She permitted him to guide her through the cave, her eyes firmly shut.  When at last they were free from the nest, she opened her eyes, the cave having expanded once more into another naturally-crafted corridor.  The stream had returned, louder and wider this time, and Ralof began walking to its left side.  Chiran’s lynx ears were erect, tufts twitching as the cat listened, his smoldering orange eyes sharp as a hawk’s. 

            Ralof paused suddenly, and Knife’s hand tightened around the hilt of one of the daggers she had found.  _It’s another spider, it’s another spider, I’m gonna die, this isn’t okay…_ her mind raced and she edged closer to Chiran. It was Hjalmar who broke the silence, musing to himself, mostly, “There is a bear ahead.”

            “One of your kinsmen?  They say you wrestle bears for fun, Hjalmar Bearblood” Ralof remarked back, glancing at the Bandit King.

            Hjalmar’s mouth twisted into a wry smile, though it was partially veiled by his auburn beard.  “ _They_ say a lot of things,” the Bandit King replied to the blonde Nord. 

            “We should move around it.  It’s asleep,” Ralof continued on, “If one of you wants to try to fight it, be my guest.  But I don’t want to risk it.”

            Chiran stepped up, selecting one of the iron arrows he had collected in the fort.   Knife watched him stalk the bear as a cougar would stalk unsuspecting travelers on the roads of Cyrodiil.  His ears were pressed against his head, earrings making barely a jingle. The cat’s tail snaked back and forth, stilling eventually as he stood within the edge of the shadow’s embrace, orange eyes burning as he pulled back the arrow until the string could budge no more. Knife watched the arrow fly, a flash of a missile and the arrowhead was buried into the bear’s skull, between the eyes. Remorselessly, Chiran checked his kill, bending over it and dislodging the arrow from its mark. 

            “That was a nice shot,” Ralof commented, unable to hide the wonder in his voice.

            _He’s done this before_ , Knife realized, feeling a stab of guilt and envy at her stomach. _He’s good…_ Chiran did not thank Ralof, but merely nodded, blinking as he looked back down at the black bear, now dead at his feet.  He took a small knife and cut the set of claws on its left forepaw off, pocketing the bloodied nails.  “Khajiit do not kill needlessly,” Chiran said to her curious gaze, flicked his poofy tail, and continued after Ralof. _Pickpocketing isn’t a very useful talent to have in this situation, I guess…_ Knife thought, trailing after the three. _Maybe I ought to take up a more useful hobby.  Like… cooking?_   Perhaps she _ought_ to have paid more attention to her magician tutor when she had been younger. _He’d been an ass though.  I don’t feel bad at all._

“It looks like there’s sunlight ahead,” Hjalmar’s voice shook her from her thoughts and she perked up. _Did we make it?_ She thought, stunned as the brilliant light struck her face.  The Breton girl held up a hand to shield her jade eyes, not sure if she truly believed the tunnel had led them from danger.  But she was certainly not eager to remain in the caverns, not with the memory of the spiders still fresh in mind.

            Ralof stepped out of the tunnel’s mouth first, then Hjalmar, and then Chiran.  Knife squeezed her way through the crevice that led to the blissful outside world, breathing in the fresh air.  She was light-blind for a moment, squinting her eyes and looking down at her muddied boots.  As the world returned to her, the Breton glanced about, the blue sky a welcome sight.  The green pines of Skyrim loomed over them, but over than that, the sunlight blazed down upon them mercilessly. She couldn’t fight the childish grin that was pulling at her lips and she sank to her knees, exhaling loudly and chuckling all the while.

            “We made it.”

            “Somehow,” Hjalmar grunted, his painted face wrought with concern.

            Knife’s borderline mad giggles died with the beating of wings.  She saw Chiran’s expression morph from that of silent relief to shock, his ears back and his paws grasping the bow he had found. As he notched an arrow, the black dragon flew overhead, an earth-shattering snarl erupting from its maw.  Ralof crouched, Hjalmar following suite.  Knife stood, frozen and staring after the dragon with a panicked expression.

            “Did it… see us?” she whispered frantically, all sense of relief swept away.  It flew over the treeline, but did not make a move to turn back, another roar resounding off, further in the distance as it faded from view into the heavens.

            “I guess not,” Ralof sounded like a mixture of surprised and relieved. “There he goes.  And it looks like he’s gone for good this time.”  He cast a glance about the group, then added, “No way to know if anyone else made it out alive. But this place is going to be swarming with Imperials soon enough. We’d better clear out of here.”

            “Aye,” Hjalmar agreed in his bearlike voice. “I’ve had my fill of Legionnaires for the day.”

            “Where are we going?” Knife asked. “This is my first time in Skyrim.  Where are we?”

            “Falkreath Hold,” Ralof answered, “Near Riverwood, actually…” A thoughtful expression crossed his face, and he stated, “My sister Gerdur runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road.  I bet she can help us out if we need a bed and food.”

            “I’m up for that,” Knife replied eagerly.

            Though Chiran and Hjalmar fell silent, they followed Ralof anyways.  Knife supposed it was out of instinct—she felt a certain safeness with the group, and did not dare to wander away.  As they walked, she felt bits of her body awaken from its adrenaline-pumped state.  Her feet suddenly ached, a wound on her shoulder was tingling with the need to be cared for, and her ears throbbed vaguely.  She glanced at the others, now that the sun could reveal them better.  Ralof had a cut above the eyebrow, a nasty thing that Knife assumed would need stitches.  Hjalmar was nursing his arm, and she noted his forearm had been bitten and was swelling with some minor poison. Chiran seemed relatively unscathed but his fur was caked with mud and the grime from the caverns and fortress.

            “You know, you should go to Windhelm and join the fight to free Skyrim.  You’ve seen the true face of the Empire here today,” Ralof looked at Hjalmar, who snorted in disdain. “If anyone will know what the coming of the dragon means, it’s Ulfric.”

            “Every Nord knows what the dragon means,” Hjalmar corrected Ralof gruffly, “It’s a sign of the End Times.”

            “You carry no love for the Empire.  Why not join the Stormcloaks?” Ralof questioned Hjalmar carefully.

            _All this Stormcloak and Empire business is enough to give me a headache,_ Knife thought darkly, listening quietly to pick up information.  She studied the vibrant wings of a butterfly that rested atop a yellow flower near the side of the road.  _That Nord back in the City was almost right; I almost didn’t survive the stupid north lands._  She did take into consideration that the old Nord vendor had not been subjected to the particular ordeals she had been through that day.  _At least that counts for something._

            The burgundy-haired bandit was both thoughtful and quiet in response, “I do not love the Empire.  And Ulfric does not love me.” Hjalmar looked at Ralof steadily, “I live by the laws of the axe, as a Nord ought to.  Tradition has been lost to the ages, but some still know the true way.” Ralof did not respond, but grimly looked the Bandit King over before shaking his head. Hjalmar studied the wound on his arm for a moment before adding, “I _will_ think on your proposition.”

            “You said something about the End Times?” Knife inquired lightly, bored with the butterfly and jogging to catch up to the others. “That certainly sounds important.”

            “There’s an old Nord tale, says when the dragons rise again that the End Times are nigh.  That a man with dragon’s blood will save Skyrim from its fate,” Ralof answered, looking over his shoulder at her.  

            Knife made a face, “I’ve never heard that story before.  I’ve been to Bruma a few times—lots of Nords there, but no one ever talks about _that_ story.”

            “Bruma,” Hjalmar halfway scoffed, halfway laughed, “They cling to the soft, warm ways of the Imperials in Bruma.”  _Just like the Nord in the Imperial City.  So damn prideful,_ the Breton girl thought dismally. 

            The road, an ancient cobblestone pathway that had long been worn away, curled around the riverbend. To the company’s left, the pine trees fell away to reveal the twisting and turning river.  Mountains reached skyward on the far side, capped with light snow and decorated with massive stone arches.  Knife briefly wondered what resided on the top of the mountain, and then ultimately decided she did not want to know. It reminded her of the ancient Ayleid ruins, in the warmer lands of Cyrodiil. The white-stone ruins were much prettier than the crumble arches that rose from the mountain’s side, but there was still a barbaric allure about them. 

            Once, she had dared to set foot into an Ayleid ruin, despite the better part of her warning her not to.  She had not dared to stay long, just enough to snatch the pale blue stones the ancient Heartland High Elves had used for lanterns.  They fetched a good enough price, she thought, and it had paid for new clothes and food for a week.  She might have dared to go back to get more stones, had she not encountered a particularly decayed, headless zombie within the ruins. Some things just were not worth the risk.

            “Riverwood,” Ralof sighed, and Knife recalled that it had been listed off as his hometown.

            The town was small, much smaller than Helgen, and greeted them with a gateway that spanned the entirety of the road.  Beneath the wooden roof, a guard walked, lazily, not even greeting them as they drew near.  The gates hung open, equally as careless, and Knife was beginning to think that no word from Helgen had reached the small quaint village yet. They passed through the gates without any harassment from the guards, and Ralof remarked, “Looks like nobody here knows what’s happened yet.  Come on, Gerdur’s probably working in her lumber mill.”

            “Didn’t they see the—”  Knife began, pointing at the sky.

            “Apparently not,” Ralof shrugged.

            He led them across a rickety boardwalk to the left of the gates, just within the town.  A stream chuckled beneath the woodwork, and the miniature bridge led them to a small spit of land.  The pines were thinner here than where they had escaped from the caverns.  A glance behind, back towards the buildings, and Knife noticed how they were primarily wooden, made with thatched roofs and hardly any decorations.  It was quaint and charming compared to the timeless buildings in the capital of Cyrodiil, built upright and constantly looming over its citizens.

            The lumber mill was no different in build from the rest of the town, built out of wood and cobblestone.  As Ralof led them over, she cast a glance up at the man working the mill, catching no glimpse of his face.  The Breton stuck with the Stormcloak as he walked by the mill, towards the back where a dozen of sawn logs lay. A woman stood near them, her long sandy hair gracefully tied back.  As she turned to see the incoming group, Knife noticed the dirt that smeared her face, and the surprise in her eyes.

            “Brother! Mara’s mercy, it is good to see you!” She cried out, tossing down her tools immediately and running to Ralof.  Her face dissolved into tears as she threw her arms around the Stormcloak’s neck.  “But… is it safe for you to be here? We heard Ulfric had been captured…”

            “Gerdur…” Ralof sighed, arms around his sister in a tight embrace. “Gerdur, I’m fine. At least, now I am.”

            His sister did not seem to believe him.  A quick sweep over her brother and Gerdur’s concern had not disappeared. “Are you hurt?  What’s happened?” She asked imploringly, wiping a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.  “And… And who are these people? Some of your comrades?”

            Knife could hear Hjalmar shifting his weight, the metal of his armor softly clinking together. Chiran had been silent since their arrival to Riverwood, standing in the far back.  She awkwardly shuffled her feet, scratching the back of her neck and looking down at her muddied boots.

            “This is Knife,” Ralof began introductions, “Chiran of Elsweyr, and… This is Hjalmar Bearblood.”

            “Hjalmar Bear--!?” Gerdur gasped, “Ralof, what are you doing with—”

            “A criminal?” Hjalmar asked, his bushy brows raised and his voice tingling with amusement.

            “It’s not like that, Gerdur.  I owe them all my life,” Ralof shook his head, keeping an arm around his sister and steering her away from the Bandit King. “Is there somewhere we can talk? There’s no telling when the news from Helgen will reach the Imperials…”

            “Helgen?  Has something happened…?” She stopped, pausing to think, then nodded her head fervently, “You’re right.  Follow me.”  At the man working the mill, she hollered, her voice loud and stern, “Hod!  Come here a minute.  I need your help with something!”  The man began to protest, but Gerdur would hear none of it, “Hod, just come here.”

            A boy of ten or twelve ran up as Gerdur led them away from the mill, towards the rumbling riverside that Knife assumed the town had been named after. “Uncle Ralof! Can I see your axe?  How many Imperials have you killed? Do you _really_ know Ulfric Stormcloak?” The boy seemed eager to see his uncle again, but his mother shooed him away almost instantly.

            “Hush, Frodnar, this is no time for your games.  Go and watch the south road. Come find us if you see any Imperial soldiers coming.”

            As the boy was ushered away, a strapping man with a thick brush of blonde facial hair approached the party, his tattered shirt and patched pants indicating he was of the working class. “Now, Ralof, what’s going on? You lot look pretty well done in,” the Nord man asked, his dark, hardened eyes sweeping over the company.

            “I can’t remember the last time I slept…” Ralof began, sitting down atop a large flat stone.  Knife sank to the dirt as well, sitting cross-legged in the grass and tugging at strands of green blades with two fingers. She breathed, feeling the burn in her legs and thighs and avoiding eye contact as she listened to Ralof begin the tale. “The Imperials ambushed us outside Darkwater Crossing… It was like they knew exactly where we would be.  That was… two days ago.” He squinted his eyes, looking up at his sister.  Nearby, Hjalmar leaned against a slim pine tree, nipping at his lower lip in thought. Chiran crouched near the river, washing the mud and dried blood from his face in complete silence.

            “We stopped at Helgen this morning…and I thought it was all over. Had us lined up to the headsman’s block, and… ready to start chopping,” Ralof reflected aloud, “They wouldn’t dare give Ulfric a fair trial. Treason…” He breathed out steadily, hands clasped together and eyes staring into blank space before him, “That’s when it happened. They had Chiran at the block.  Right before the axe came down…”

            “What happened, Ralof?” Gerdur asked quietly.

            “The dragon,” Hjalmar answered, voice as dark of a rumble as the black monster’s roar.


	5. Before the Storm - Part 1

Ailonwe

 

            During the Third Era, in the year of 433, the Dragonfires of the Imperial City had gone out when the Emperor Uriel Septim VII and his heirs had been assassinated.  It had been the work of the Mythic Dawn, the now long-dead cult that had devoted itself to the Daedric Prince Mehrunes Dagon.  Only the courage of Martin Septim, the bastard son of the fallen Emperor, and the willpower of the Hero of Kvatch, the Dunmer sellsword Halia, had caused Tamriel to prevail through the trying times.  Ailonwe knew the story better than anyone else, so she believed, having heard the tales since she was but an infant.

            Her mother, the fragile woman Senya, had sat her on her lap within their manse, telling her the tales of the Third Era and the heroics of Halia the Sellsword, who later took up the surname Kevarathi.  Those were the memories that Ailonwe cherished the most, hearing of her grand ancestry and how it was responsible for saving Nirn from a grisly fate at Dagon’s hands. The nobles still acknowledged their clan’s greatness, offering the house’s patriarch a seat in the high courts and prestigious military ranks to those who enlisted in the Legion.

            Ailonwe had lived a life of prosperity and luxury in the Imperial City, and when her grandfather had been offered a count position in Skingrad, she had lived in even more luxury.  Skingrad had been a pleasant enough place to grow up, and it had been the place where Ailonwe learned how to ride a horse, sew delicate dresses, and sing the ballads of old. When her doting grandfather had passed on, her father had stepped in as the new Count Skingrad, and Ailonwe had been all the more eager to learn things that made her a proper lady, as well as a proper Kevarathi.  Her mother had attended the College of Winterhold in her youth and that had been Ailonwe’s dream.  She wanted to be every inch the magician her mother was, or perhaps even more.

            The day she had left for the College, she had been seen off by her parents, her mother lightly kissing the top of her forehead and placing a delicate circlet of gold and gems of the same crimson as Skingrad's banners. “So that you will remember where you are from,” her sweet, strong mother had said, fighting back tears. Her father had given her a white horse to ride to Winterhold, and five knights had accompanied her.

            They had been slain sometime during the ambush.  When the Legionnaires had broken through the pines and shrubs, her horse had reared up, unaccustomed to warfare, and had bucked her off in a frenzy.  Her knights, young and handsome men, had been scattered by the ambush, and had tried to regroup.  Ailonwe could not remember what happened to them, but she saw Sir Rowan’s head get taken off by a blue-clad Nord’s axe, and not long after, Sir Marianus had been run through with a flat sword. She had shouted for them to stop, but none had listened to her.

            The fall from the horse had knocked her silly, and they arrested her in that same delusional state.  She had been mad with fear.  Perhaps that was why the soldier seizing her arms had become alight with fire, and had died shrieking into the chaotic air.  She had screamed as well, her hands afire without her consent, and she had tried to run.  The dark-skinned Imperial had caught her, though, his stern eyes looming down at her over his beak nose.   She had surrendered then, wondering if they were going to try her for the murder of a guardsman.

            But nothing had been said of that.  She had protested loudly, she had kicked, and she had screamed.  None of the guard had listened to her.  When they were going to take off the head of that ugly cat, she had shut her eyes, not seeing the dragon, just hearing its nasty roar and getting tossed backwards.  Somehow, she had found her way to shelter, and then she had found the Legionnaire Nord and the Altmer with the maimed face.  All the chaos gave her a migraine.

            Hadvar led the way, and while Ailonwe would have liked to be alongside him, beaming at his handsome, strong features, she dwelt behind the Altmer lady, who scared her almost as much as the dragon outside had.  Valerius, the deeply tanned Imperial, was a gruff rearguard, despite his high rank among the Legionnaires.  Ailonwe thought to ask him why they had almost executed her, but some part of her chided that now was not the time for that.  Hadvar had led them true thus far, and while the Prefect Valerius seemed to be content muttering darkly about how “all of the people we keep seeing are dead already”, Ailonwe was just ready to be on her way from this nightmare.

            “Dead bear, dead spiders… dead _Legionnaires_ ,” Valerius scowled to himself, but Ailonwe figured he was probably talking to Hadvar, “This does not bode well for the casualty report.” The Imperial was looking over the dead bear, a fresh, new kill, kicking at a paw that had been disgustingly de-clawed. Ailonwe tore her gaze away, making a face as Valerius continued, “It looks like someone was in a rush to leave…”

            “Could be the Stormcloaks.  Or more Legionnaires,” Hadvar said, without a hint of emotion.

            “We can’t be too far behind,” Prefect Valerius pointed out, eyeing the corpse still.

            “There’s light ahead,” Synestra said suddenly, clearly stunned.  _What?  We’ve made it?_ Ailonwe craned her neck, attempting to look over Synestra’s shoulder before eventually looking around the tall woman.  She was right—through a crevice wide enough for one person to pass through at a time, there was a crack of sunlight, streaming in upon the company’s faces. Ailonwe felt wetness collect at her eyes, and though she tried to ignore the burning of tears, she was unafraid to let them fall onto the borrowed, dented armor.

            “We made it…” The Dunmer breathed, her voice choked with emotion as she stumbled forward, twigs of messy ebony hair falling into her eyes.  _We’re alive.  We’ve made it, oh thank the Eight, we’ve made it!_

            The high elf took a few paces forward, finally sheathing her sword, her blazing left eye narrowed.  “It looks like you’ve led us true, Nord,” the Altmer’s voice was vaguely warm, and her scars made her small smile look almost eerie. 

            Hadvar squeezed through the gap in the earth, staggering into the sunlight.  Synestra was next, and Ailonwe followed, sucking in her stomach despite being thin enough to make it through.  She stumbled into the sunlight, the afternoon sunbeams glaring into her brilliant red eyes.  As the girl lifted a hand to shield her face, she took in the free air, feeling it rush through her lungs and was unable to hide a smile of relief. 

            Valerius stumbled out last, removing his helmet and allowing his thick, dark hair to wave and swish in the cold Skyrim breeze.  He was a hard looking man, his icy eyes harsh and unrelenting. “General Tullius said we would be regrouping,” he said, business first, as per usual of the Imperial. “Riverwood is not far from here, the women can go there for shelter and food.  Hadvar, we must find the General.”

            “Falkreath is to the south of here, a long journey on foot,” Hadvar shook his head, “We should rest in Riverwood as well.”

            “I am bound by duty and honor,” Valerius said sternly, “There could be civilians that need our help—”

            “At least let me escort these two to Riverwood.  I have an uncle that can care for them.  I will find you in Falkreath,” Hadvar stood his ground, looking at the battle-worn Imperial with a firm glint in his eyes.  Valerius relented after a moment of thought, nodding to him.

            “Divines watch over you.  Keep an eye on the skies and take cover if you see anything,” Valerius nodded to them all each in turn, and Ailonwe watched him go, ragged and disheveled, but a loyal soldier all the same. _He’s brave…_ she marveled quietly. _But I wonder how tired he is…_

            “Riverwood is this way,” Hadvar said when Valerius had vanished from sight.  He led once more, in silence, his tired eyes set on the horizon.

            “It is kind for you to escort us, Hadvar,” Synestra had calmed since leaving the caverns, Ailonwe noticed.  Her entire posture changed, her shoulders relaxing into place and her hand did not stray to her sword’s hilt as often.  Even the high elf’s breath was slow, collected, and unconcerned.  Blood smear stained the side of her face, her golden hair sticky with crimson.

            _All of this blood and death… because of some stupid war.  And I was dragged into this because no one bothered to ask me who I was or where I was from!_ She thought huffily.“Yes, _thank you_ , Sir Hadvar,” Ailonwe chimed in, “I’ll see that my father sends you a reward, despite how you were _so_ ready to see all of our heads fly off.”  She felt her confidence seep back into her, winding up her limbs like a snake.  The Dunmer caught Synestra’s severe glare, but Ailonwe nonchalantly waved it aside.  All of the fear within her veins and muscles was dying away with each step towards Riverwood, replacing itself with silent anger.

            “That wasn’t my fault,” Hadvar commented in a stale and flat voice.

            “The mouse becomes a lion again,” Synestra commented dryly.

            _Only because we’re out of that dreadful place,_ Ailonwe thought with more than a handful of sass. _We don’t have to depend on each other.  I can leave you lot whenever I’d like._

            “Where do you go from Riverwood?” Hadvar asked Synestra as they walked down the slopes, towards the distant rushing of a river.

            “One step at a time,” Synestra responded quietly, “If Riverwood should need my help, I will stay there.” _She’s honorable, like a knight, but Divines be blessed, she is a terrifying woman,_ Ailonwe thought. _And lowborn, too, no doubt.  Even though she’s an Altmer, she’s obviously not good enough for the Thalmor, else she would not have been imprisoned.  So who is she, anyways?  A rogue?  Probably a thief, like that Nord man who was shot full of arrows!_

            The tall pines and the smell of wildlife around her reminded the Dunmer of the Great Forest, which had resided not terribly far from Skingrad.  She remembered being attacked by a wolf there, when she had been younger and had thought to run away over some triviality.  One of the knights had found her there, climbing a tree to get rid of the snarling, vicious pack.  She had cried into his shoulder all the way home, after the wolves had been dealt with. _Sir Rowan, that had been you…_ she thought, and the tears were back in her eyes again.

            “I’m going to the College of Winterhold,” Ailonwe announced without anyone’s inquiry, her head held high despite the tears that threatened to fall, “I’m going to learn magic.”

            “Winterhold.  That’s far from here.  You’ve a long journey yet,” Hadvar commented, “You’d do well to hire a carriage in Whiterun.  There’s a good man there, named Bjorlam.  He can take you anywhere you’d like to go.”

            Ailonwe was taken aback by his kindness, despite her scathing comments to him.  She narrowed her crimson eyes, trying to decide if he was joking with her or not. “Hm.  I suppose I could hire a carriage.  It is better than walking.  Thank you, Sir Hadvar.”

            “It’s… just Hadvar.”

            The road wove through the forests, almost without purpose.  Ailonwe feared Riverwood was further than Hadvar had told them initially, and sighed heavily, not bothering to hide her dissatisfaction from the other two.  The treeline gave way to the river, a loud and swift body of water that splashed raucously against the stones that jutted from its belly.  As they followed the path down the winding river, Hadvar exclaimed, “Ah, here they are.  I was wondering if we would pass them.”

            Ailonwe glanced ahead, at what appeared to be some altar to a god she did not recognize. _Oh dear… what kind of land is this Skyrim, anyways?_ She hoped they still were devout worshippers of the Divines.  Daedra worshippers were never a good thing, or so her mother had told her once.  They approached quietly, and Ailonwe realized that Hadvar’s marvel was directed at three stones that looked to have carving upon their ancient torsos.  Hadvar approached one, and he ran his hand over it.  As his worn, dirtied hand moved, Ailonwe noticed the rock had a particular carving in the shape of a warrior.  She tilted her head to the left, studying the rocks quietly.

            “What are they?” Synestra asked, her voice subdued and calm compared to her vicious barks within the caverns.

            “The Guardian Stones.  There are similar ones scattered around Skyrim,” Hadvar replied. “They say that they give special powers.”

            Synestra approached the one Hadvar had gently touched, her scarred mouth twitching with a small smile. “They depict the thirteen main constellations,” Synestra observed, “The Warrior… The very sign I was born under.”

            “Were you?” Hadvar observed. “Good.  I knew you shouldn’t have been in that cart the minute I laid eyes on you.”

            Ailonwe looked at the stones with a careless eye, shifting her weight and lightly tapping one of the stones, “This one has the Mage, on it.  And the other has the Thief.”  She paused, then asked, “They don’t _really_ give powers, do they?”

            “A lot of things in this world can’t be explained,” Synestra responded with the shrug of her shoulders.

            “Hmph, well, stone, if you’re going to be giving out powers, might as well give _me_ some,” Ailonwe folded her arms, glaring at the Mage Stone with expectant blood-red eyes. When nothing happened, Hadvar chuckled, and Synestra shook her head dismally, causing a red creep of embarrassment up the Dunmer’s nape. “Hmph, stupid stone,” came the Dunmer’s scathing response, and the three were on their way, down the path, which skirted near the waters of the swift river.

            “Riverwood’s ahead,” Hadvar said, peering down the long, cobblestone road, “Look to your left, see the arches up there?” He paused, pointing at the snow-capped mountains on the far side of the river.  Ailonwe looked up at them, large gray sentinels that jutted at the sky angrily, casting dark shadows upon the river.  It did not take long to find the arches; they were unnatural and strange to the Dunmer, and immediately she shivered, not wanting to know what they signified in the feral lands of Skyrim. “That is Bleak Falls Barrow. That place always used to give me nightmares.” 

            “What is it?” Ailonwe asked, making a face.

            “An old Nordic ruin.  It hasn’t be touched in centuries,” Hadvar answered, his voice grim and bitter.

            As the company walked, Ailonwe watched the water, wanting nothing more than a hot bath and a rag to sponge the blood and dirt from her slender body.  She doubted she would find any luxurious items in the bleak land of Skyrim, not until she got to one of the major cities, at least.  She made a face, watching the salmon fruitlessly slam themselves into a small cascade of torrential water, and continued on, vainly undoing her hair and trying to re-braid it as they walked.

            She looked to the left and right, certain that wolves would try to ambush her as they had when she was younger.  The wildlife that appeared were tame, docile creatures.  An elk stood on the far bank, drinking from the cold waters.  A fox scattered through the underbrush, and Ailonwe saw nothing of him but his fiery orange pelt.  Before them, a brown, mottled haired foxhad leapt out onto the pathway, so fast that no one in the company had time to react.  It was gone in an instant though, and before long, the only animal noises that the Dunmer heard were from the goats that resided in Riverwood.

            Ailonwe was immediately unimpressed by Riverwood.  It was a feral looking town, with so much open air that it felt more like a tribal village than an actual town.  She furrowed her brow when they entered through the open-air gates and folded her arms huffily.  Hadvar went to the first house on the left, and Ailonwe followed him to the outdoor porch.  A man was working the forge, his hair a light brown and his beard a giant bushel upon his chin.

            "Uncle Alvor! Hello!" Hadvar called out once, then twice, trying to get the blacksmith’s attention.  The man set down his tools, looking over his shoulder.  He gaped, his mouth small against his furry beard.

            “Hadvar? What are you doing here? Are you on leave from...” The blacksmith rose from his bench, and then stopped, looking over the Legionnaire, then casting a glance at Ailonwe and Synestra. “Shor's bones, what happened to you, boy? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

            “Shh… Uncle, please. Keep your voice down. I'm fine. But we should go inside to talk.”

            “What's going on? And who are these two?”

            Hadvar sighed, “They’re friends, Uncle Alvor. Saved my life in fact. Come on, I'll explain everything, but we need to go inside.” 

            “Okay, okay. Come inside, then. Sigrid will get you something to eat and you can tell me all about it,” His uncle relented, dusting off his hands, then removing his apron, letting it fall on the bench in a slump.

            Hadvar urged them inside, tossing a paranoid look over his shoulders before stepping into the small cottage of a house.  Ailonwe had been expecting something grand and beautiful, and was sorely disappointed.  She sat at the table, as was commanded by Hadvar, and Synestra sat to her left. Alvor, sat across from his nephew, exhaling loudly. “Sigrid! We have company!”  At his shout, a Nord woman with long brown hair approached from where she was stirring a stew.  Ailonwe’s stomach gurgled, but she said nothing, and just enjoyed the bench.  

            “Now, then, boy. What's the big mystery? What are you doing here, looking like you lost an argument with a cave bear?” Alvor began passing around a basket that contained slices of bread.  When Ailonwe took her piece, she began wolfing it down unceremoniously, her stomach itching at the idea of food.  As she tore into the bread, Hadvar began their tale.

            “I don't know where to start. You know I was assigned to General Tullius's guard. We were stopped in Helgen when we were attacked... by a dragon,” Hadvar paused his story momentarily to thank Sigrid, who was pouring the company some fresh mead.

            “May I just have some tea?  Berry, preferably,” Ailonwe asked Sigrid, who shot her a funny look before replying.

            “We have mead and water.”

            “Water, then,” Ailonwe did not like the taste of barbarian’s drinks, and she would not suffer any longer that day.  She dipped her head graciously to the Nord woman when she returned with a cup of water, which the Dunmer gulped down almost at once.

            Alvor stared at his nephew from across the table as Sigrid began to serve the stew, a meager but delicious-smelling concoction of vegetables and an unknown meat.  Ailonwe secretly hoped there were no exotic delicacies in Skyrim. “A dragon? That's... ridiculous. You aren't drunk, are you boy?” His uncle thundered raucously.

            “Husband. Let him tell his story,” Sigrid chided her husband, waving the stew-stained spoon at him before pouring herself a bowl.

            “Not much more to tell. This dragon flew over and just wrecked the whole place. Mass confusion. I don't know if anyone else got out alive. I doubt I'd have made it out myself if not for my friends here. I need to get back to Falkreath and let them know what's happened. I thought you could help us out. Food, supplies, a place to stay,” Hadvar shook his head, “Prefect Valerius said that General Tullius was going back to Falkreath to regroup.”

            “Stay as long as you would like,” Alvor replied, “Legion be damned, you’re in no shape to travel, any of you.” He paused, glancing at Sigrid before looking at Hadvar, “There is one thing… The Jarl needs to know if there's a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless... We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can. If you'll do that for me, I'll be in your debt.”

            “I can do that,” Hadvar nodded to his uncle.

            “No, you cannot,” Synestra responded carefully, looking at Hadvar, “Your General needs you, you said it yourself.  He wants the Legion to regroup in Falkreath.  I am not a Legionnaire.  I will go to speak with your Jarl.”

            Hadvar paused, looking between the high elf and his uncle.  Alvor offered him only the shrug of his shoulders, “She’s got a fair point.” 

            “Then it’s settled,” Hadvar nodded, “Thank you, Synestra.  I owe you.”

            “How does one get to Whiterun?” Ailonwe asked cautiously, trying to remember her manners.  Hadvar may have very well been content with her head flying off, but his uncle was gracious enough to give her food and shelter. “I’m hoping to hire a carriage to get to Winterhold.”

            "Cross the river and then head north. You'll see it, just past the falls. When you get to Whiterun just keep going up. The top of the hill is Dragonsreach, the Jarl’s palace,” Alvor replied, “Winterhold, eh?  Most Dunmer refugees go to Windhelm.”

            “I’m not a refugee,” Ailonwe said abruptly, chin lifted to display her confidence, “I’m hoping to attend the college in Winterhold.”

            Alvor raised his eyebrows, and shrugged, “Whatever suites you, I suppose.  Magic doesn’t have a positive presence in Skyrim.  The College doesn’t have a nice standing with the folk in Winterhold, I hear.”  Ailonwe wasn’t sure what to make of his warning. _Why have a college if you people don’t even like magic?_  She was beginning to loathe Skyrim more and more. 

            The blacksmith glanced at Synestra, and informed her, “Jarl Balgruuf rules Whiterun Hold and he is the one you will want to speak with. A good man, perhaps a bit over-cautious, but these are dangerous times. So far he's managed to stay out of the war. I'm afraid it can't last, though.” He took a bite of stew, then continued thoughtfully, “I don't think he likes either Ulfric or Elisif much. Who can blame him? But I've no doubt he'll prove loyal to the Empire in the end.  He's no traitor.”

            “I’ve heard much about this conflict, but I have no idea what it is even about,” Synestra remarked after a swig of mead, “There are Stormcloaks, there are loyalists.  No word of this conflict has reached other parts of the Empire, I can assure you.  What has happened here?”

            “Ah, I forget you're new to Skyrim,” Alvor sighed, and Sigrid poured him another goblet of mead. “Ulfric Stormcloak murdered High King Torygg.  Claims it was a fair fight. Shouted him to death, if you believe the stories. That's what started this whole war. The Empire couldn't ignore that. Once the jarls start killing each other, we're back to the bad old days.”

            “ _Shouted_?” Ailonwe asked, and when Hadvar, Sigrid, and Alvor merely gave her blank looks, the Dunmer explained, “I’m sorry, that seems a tad absurd…?”

            “The Voice?” Hadvar asked her, and Ailonwe couldn’t say that it rang any bells.  When she shook her head, Hadvar began, “It’s a power, only mastered through vigorous training.  Ulfric learned the Voice, how to shout in the language of dragons, from the Greybeards at High Hrothgar.”  Half of what he was saying made no sense to her, but she strived to understand nonetheless. “He used this power to kill the High King.”

            “The language of dragons… such as the language of the monster we saw today…” Synestra mused to herself.

            “There’s old legends of the coming of dragons,” Alvor began, leaning back against his chair, “They say it marks the end times.”

            No one spoke. Synestra finished off her stew quietly, looking at the table with an empty expression.  Hadvar shifted in his chair awkwardly and Ailonwe finally saw fit to break the silence after a few agonizing minutes.. “So what does that mean?” Ailonwe asked, “That the world is ending?  Just because of a dragon?” She cast her gaze about the room. “They thought the world was ending when the Oblivion gates opened across Cyrodiil and it didn’t.  Halia Kevarathi and Martin Septim drove back the daedra and the world was saved.”

            “There is one who can stop the dragons, and Alduin World-Eater,” Alvor replied, “The Dragonborn, as foretold long ago.  With a voice as loud as thunder and with the ability to devour the souls of dragons.”

            _What a bleak and upsetting land this is._

            “So you’re saying that no one can kill a dragon except this… Dragonborn?” Synestra piped up, giving Alvor a quizzical look.

            Thoughtfully, Alvor pursed his lips, looking at the Altmer, “I…” The lull in the air was long and flooded with tension.  When at last the blacksmith spoke once more, he seemed all the more dismayed. “I don’t know.”


	6. Before the Storm - Part 2

Valerius

Prefect of the Legion

         

         Evening was settling in across Falkreath Hold, a land of pines and craggy cold rivers. Valerius felt strangely at home, despite the frost that lightly topped the landscape.  It reminded him of home, near the Great Forest where he had often gone hunting with his father, a man who had been of the Legion once before being maimed by a bandit and forced to retire. He was still there, in Chorrol, living out his days in the safety of its arching boughs and viridian landscape.  _I will write to him when I am done,_ vowed the Prefect silently, his pale eyes moving to horizon.

            Mists were beginning to roll in, and he felt the air thicken with moisture, his breath steaming against the lowering temperatures.  _The General will at least stay a day, provided nothing extreme happens,_ mused the Imperial to himself.  _And should something extreme happen… I’ll find them.  Either way._   Briefly, he wondered if Hadvar was further behind him on the road, or if he had decided to spend the evening in Riverwood. 

            _With any luck, the dragon will have destroyed Ulfric and his rebels,_ thought Valerius with the slightest twinge of a smug smirk at his lips.  Perhaps then, he could return to Cyrodiil now that the threat of a war was over.  Skyrim was a savage country, full of death and monsters.  Cyrodiil was much tamer, much _warmer_ too.  He missed the sunlight on his skin and how it warmed him in his armor.  The Imperial grimaced as a particularly biting wind nipped at his face and cheeks, and shuddered, lowering his head. It was just too damn cold here; that was his problem.  _And to think, I’m only in the southern bits of Falkreath!_  His mouth opened in a half-chuckle, half-sneer of discontent. He had been north once, to Solitude, when he had been sent to Skyrim for duty.  He had met Tullius there… Tullius and Rikke.

            He remembered seeing her for the first time, his elder, his superior officer, and yet something about her was intriguing.  Valerius had often been told that Nord women were the fiercest of Tamriel—with biting wit, no-nonsense, and the ability to cleave a man’s head off with a small butcher knife.  He had not been a believer until he had met her. Rikke had been a good enough commanding officer, and some days, he missed the harsh words that would spout from her tight, pale lips.  He wondered if he would see her again, with her stern eyes that seemed to be constantly reflecting on something and her worn skin that had seen too much battle.  She had not been there for the ambush on Ulfric’s caravan.

            _She’s probably still in Solitude,_ he fought back a smile, a prickle of embarrassment crawling up his neck.  Valerius removed his helmet, shaking his head to rid some of the sweat that had beaded together within his dark hair.  The steel helm was stuffy at times, especially when he had so far to trek.  He glanced up, at the where the pine trees gave way to a ruined tower upon a craggy hill.  _Lake Ilinalta is to my right… Falkreath will be a few miles south of here._  Valerius sighed heavily.

            It was going to be a long walk.

            The evening yielded to the night eventually, and the twin moons of Masser and Secunda stared down from their celestial thrones.  Valerius stopped to rest once, near a ruins that seemed to long abandoned.  He lit a small fire as the night settled in and the last strands of twilight disappeared.  The stars were luminous in the northern lands compared to how they shone in Cyrodiil.  Valerius leaned against a nearby pillar and closed his eyes, ignoring the burn in his calves and feet.  He needed a break, he knew.  His arms and legs had small wounds that he had dabbled salves on, and he used whatever healing knowledge he could to close the wounds.  His attempts were mostly beneficial, though the wounds still seared painfully when he flexed his muscles or strained his legs.

            Valerius of Chorrol sat in pensive, quiet thought for awhile, his icy eyes reflecting the firelight.  In the flames, he saw the dragon, black as death itself with eyes of blood.  _The dragon is the symbol of Akatosh,_ he told himself, mind travelling back to the stone dragon that resided in the Temple of the One. _So what is it?  Why would Akatosh send down a dragon?_ He had been a devout follower of the Divines since a boy.  Valerius knew the tales of the Divines as well as any holy man.  He had done his studying and reading.  _Dragons don’t fall from the sky._   The Nords had their own beliefs about such things, he presumed.  They were a strange race, full of pride and haughty in nature.  _At least Ulfric’s men are._

The Stormcloaks were blind idiots to him, wailing like children who had their favorite toy taken away.  They did not understand the big picture, but how could they?  The rebels stuffed their noses in the snow and they did not try to understand.  Ulfric was just an ambitious man, promising them freedom when all he craved was the chance to become a king.  Valerius did not like the man, just as he did not like the dragon that had torn Helgen apart. _And yet… the dragon saved Ulfric, in the end.  At least from the executioner’s block._ Once more, Valerius prayed that the rebellion’s leader had been unfortunately smashed under a crumbling tower.

            Thoughts interrupted by the stinging in his leg, Valerius unbuckled his thick-plated greaves and massaged his calf in total silence. He dared to close his eyes once or twice, but the shrill cry of a wolf nearby forced them open.  The Imperial’s hand clasped the hilt of his sword and he rose from the stony ground.  He allowed his free hand to dust himself off, snuff out the flames, and then he was back on his way along the road.

            The night offered strange noises, and Valerius felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as something scurried within the underbrush to his left.   He drew out his blade out of habit, the broad shield he had been given upon entry into the Legion strapped to his left arm.  Valerius continued at a quicker pace, the night creatures dancing and hollering in the wilderness around him. The Imperial moved faster and faster, breaking into a sprint as a strange shadow fell on him.

            Ghouls were dancing in the forests, he feared.  Cyrodiil had zombies, usually the fell results of necromancy and black magic.  He did not know what Skyrim had, but he suspected necromancy was a universal concept.  The Imperial chanced a glance to his left and lights danced within the shadows-- brimming and hungering crimson orbs.  As they danced and shone, they seemed to stare at him, barely illuminating anything in the darkness of the pine forest.

            Another set of red orbs appeared, a little further off, and Valerius quickened his pace, silently wondering why they seemed to drift in pairs.  He dared not break off the road, fearing the orbs would draw him into the shadows and devour him.  The Prefect, scared and trembling, ran until his feet screamed with pain, the orbs matching his pace with ease.  Valerius stopped for a moment, his sword still at hand, and his lungs begging for oxygen as he panted.  “What… do you want?” He challenged the orbs, now three sets, and he was met with a growl of a reply.

            When the orbs moved in a flash, he saw it.  _Divines save me, they’re eyes,_ thought the Imperial as the first of the nightmarish creatures flew from the shadows, an array of fangs lit up by both its glowing eyes and the stars above.  Valerius’ sword was a glint in response, swung at the beast’s unnatural, sleek neck.  His sword cleaved through the metallic collar and met the creature’s neck, digging midway until it reached the spine.  He withdrew the sword from the monster’s body swiftly, the hound falling to the ground in a heap and the light from its eyes fading.

            It was unfamiliar to him, a beast that was mere dark violet skin with a mouthful of sharpened fangs.  The beast was gaunt, unnatural, its nose resembling that of a skull’s and its ears missing. Where the skin should have fit nicely over its bones, it sunk in, exposing ribs and joints alike.  “Mara’s mercy…” Valerius breathed under his breath. 

            The remaining two gaunthounds emerged from the shadows, their eyes smoldering with wrath.  Sword held out to protect himself from the creatures, Valerius backed a step, his heart thundering against his chest.  They did not lunge, snarling and baying in hellish, deep voices as they edged Valerius back a few paces.

            “Get away!” Valerius sneered in response, despite himself, his shield at the ready, “I’ll kill you, you… you mutts!” His threats were meaningless to him, and it occurred to him that the hounds had been collared, as if someone were to own them…

            “Mauthe!  Barghest!” a voice rasped, and Valerius whirled around, his blade pointed at a man with dark hair.  “Oh… I see you found someone.”

            “Are… are these your _pets_?” Valerius sputtered in disbelief.

            He gave no response.  The man’s eyes lifted, and Valerius could not fight back a gasp of horror.  They did not glow crimson, like in the tales of old.  His irises were as bright as the sun, shimmering unnaturally with magic, the whites of his eyes replaces with a burning orange.  The man’s face was scrunched up in a permanent sneer, his cheekbones outlined beneath his skin.  At Valerius’ gasp, the man, as large and bulky as any regular Nord, smiled, his fangs a shining pearly white.  “What?  Is there… something wrong?”

            “You’re a—” Valerius was not able to finish the sentence.

            The man struck, his axe withdrawn from the cinch on his belt in the blink of an eye.  Valerius forgot about the hounds, his shield lunging for the vampire’s face. It struck true, the vampire falling backwards with blood decorating his already puglike face. But it was a vain strike; one of the hounds found its way to Valerius’ shin, and he felt the powerful tug of its jaws.  He swiped at it with his sword, awkwardly, the second one lunging for his back.  The Prefect fell to the ground, sword dropping somewhere in the melee, and at once, the Imperial was kicking and lashing out wildly at his assaulters.  One steel-clad boot landed in a hound’s face, and it flew back, shrieking louder than a banshee. The second dog lunged for his shoulder, and Valerius ripped the beast off his body with his bare hands, tossing it aside as he struggled to rise. 

            His hand found the sword a few feet away as one of the hounds went in for another strike.  The blade cleaved the beast in the shoulder, and sent it howling away. Valerius pushed himself up as the other hound came barreling forth, his shield striking it back and his blade doing it in through the middle of the torso.  But as he turned away, the vampire was there, in his face with fangs bared.  Valerius struck out with the blade, but the vampire had a hold of his throat, the blade sinking into the vampire’s shoulder.  He was released with a hiss of disapproval, and as the vampire fell away, the Imperial lifted the sword to take his head off at the neck.

            The arrow thudded into Valerius’ shoulder, piercing through the plates of his armor and digging a wellspring of blood.  He gasped, the second arrow striking just a few inches below the first.  As he fell to the ground, his knee caught him, and the blade fell from his hands.

            “Is the Thrallmaster having issues catching a thrall?” piped up the sneering, sadistic voice of a woman.  Valerius couldn’t see her, but she knew she was there.  Footsteps were fading in and out of his hearing, and he knew he was done for.

             “Shut up, wench,” the first vampire barked back viciously, still gripping his gashed side.

            Valerius struggled to find the strength in his feet, his leg aching with exhaustion, the world spinning as he began to push himself up.  A sturdy boot slammed him into the muck and a third voice growled lowly, “I could kill him for you, Rargal.”

            “This one has spirit.  I like that in a thrall,” Rargal, the first vampire, remarked coldly, taking a step forward.  Valerius heard him wince and cry out, “… But he’s a dangerous one.  I don’t very much like being made a fool of by meat sacks such as himself.”

            “Then make him your thrall and let’s be done with it.  Harkon will want us back,” the woman said impatiently.

            “I want to bleed him,” Rargal protested, “Slowly.  Painfully.”  Valerius struggled under the boot that held him, pain searing up his spine.  After a thoughtful hesitation, the one named Rargal decided sternly, “Feran accidentally killed the Bosmer runt I liked feeding on.  This will be his replacement.”

            “Feed and be done with it.”

            Valerius felt the boot remove itself and someone turned him over, the arrows still embedded into his shoulder.  He gasped as his own weight pressed them further in. _I’ve failed,_ he thought, staring at their faces and their glowing eyes.  The woman was an Imperial with snow-colored skin and an equally punched-in face, her eyes the same glow as Rargal’s.  She looked all the more menacing with her dark hair and fanged grin.  The other man was a Redguard, or had been before he had been dragged into the world of the undead.  He glared down at him with merciless eyes and a steel axe, which Valerius supposed would be used if he were to lash out.

            Rargal knelt, smelling of death and blood as he leaned over Valerius. The Imperial squirmed by instinct, moving his head away from Rargal’s drooling fangs.  But that was precisely what the Thrallmaster wanted, his mouth opening wider and clamping where Valerius’ shoulder met his neck.  The pain was unbelievable, his eyes snapping open and staring at where Rargal’s dark hair brushed his face, concealing what the vampire was doing.  The Imperial couldn’t hold back the scream that tore from his lips, breaking through the eerie atmosphere and singing out towards the heavens, where Masser and Secunda sat, not caring about his pain or his suffering.  

            He felt Rargal draw the blood from him, sucking and clamped at his neck.  Valerius reached up and grabbed a handful of the Nord’s hair, fearfully trying to pull him from his feast.  In his frenzy, the Thrallmaster restrained him, his muscular arms pinning the soldier’s arms to the ground.  He thrashed, pulling at skin and sucking harder, locked in some monstrous euphoria. _He’s not going to stop…_ Valerius felt weak suddenly.

            “You’re killing him,” the woman ‘tsked’ in an uppity voice.

            Rargal disengaged almost immediately, his face smeared sanguine and his dripping grin scarcely visible. He thundered a declaration of some kind, but Valerius couldn’t understand.  His hearing had been muddled since the arrows had found his shoulder, and now what little he could decipher was faded into a muted silence. As they moved him, he thought of Chorrol, the city of trees and quaint bardic music.  Valerius thought of his father, sitting in his chair and looking out across the porch, his mother sweeping near the doormat.  He thought of Rikke, who would think he died when the dragon struck Helgen.

            _They’ll never know…_ he thought, some part of him laughing on the inside. _They’ll never know… Hadvar will know… If he goes back to Tullius, he’ll expect me to be there…_ Perhaps Hadvar would try to look, but all they would find was nothing.  _My helmet…_ it dawned on him that he had left his helm by the ruins. _They’ll devour my bones and nothing will remain on this plane…_

            He thought of the war he could not aid his country in.  He thought of the horse he had ridden in Chorrol as a child.  Valerius thought of his brother, several years his younger, who had thought to join the Legion someday as well.  He thought of Cyrodiil’s warmth and cursed how cold it had suddenly become.

            _Stendarr, smite them since I cannot…_ prayed the Prefect as he drifted slowly into unconsciousness. _Let me find Aetherius…_


	7. Before the Storm - Part 3

Hjalmar Bearblood

The Bandit King

 

            Night had settled onto Riverwood, the sky painted with a myriad of stars.  Gerdur had allowed the company to settle within their small house for the evening, but Hjalmar did not sleep.  His large mass was curled awkwardly upon the wooden floor, a few wool blankets spread over his hunched shoulders.  But his eyes did not close, instead, staring holes through the walls and ceilings of the cottage.  Not far from him was the body of Ralof, snoring softly, his limbs twitching and spasming occasionally.  Hjalmar wondered if he dreamed of dragons and Legionnaires, but did not bother to wake him, even when his mouth parted in a frightened gasp.  The cat was somewhere beyond Ralof, and the Breton girl was on the far side of the room, no doubt still shaking from the nightmares they had experienced that day.

            He waited for an hour or two before he rose, light as he could muster on his feet, and began his work cautiously.  Glancing over the others briefly, he assured himself that they were asleep when he turned to the kitchen table.  That was where they had stored their weapons, and Hjalmar selected the warhammer he had taken from a fallen soldier.  Deftly, he lifted it from the wooden surface and strapped it onto his back, careful to keep silent.

            Hjalmar made it out the door before he realized there was something wrong.

            He had assumed the Breton had been among the curled, sleeping bodies, not bothering to count them all when he had been inside.   The great bear of a Nord stopped in his tracks, his almond eyes squinting in the moonlight as he glared at the lithe and slender girl.  She had collected a dark-colored horse, from where, he was unsure, and was strapping bags to its saddle, twisting a tight knot around what he perceived to be a sack of food.  He stood for a moment, head tilted as she continued, oblivious to his presence.

            She was prepping to swing her leg over the black stallion’s back when he decided to break his silence. “Where are you going, lass?” Hjalmar Bearblood asked, his voice revealing more curiosity than malice. 

            His question made her jump, and the girl found herself clinging onto the horse’s saddle for support and for comfort.  Slowly, the Breton turned, looking up at the brown-haired Nord and his mighty painted face.  “I… uh…” She didn’t offer back an answer.

            The Bandit King’s lip curled into a wry smirk. “More importantly…” he began, eyes flitting to the horse, well in its prime with the muscles and build of a working stallion. “Where did you pull _that_ out of?” His eyes drifted below her neckline, then back to her startled jade eyes, “I know that wasn’t there before.”

            _You stole it,_ he wanted her to confess it.  Hjalmar recalled her conversation with Ralof during the ill-fated cart ride to Helgen.  She was a thief, not so different than he was.  _Horse theft is quite the bounty… She managed this without alerting the guard…_ The girl blushed beneath the light of Masser and Secunda, flustered as she avoided his eye contact, “I um… Found it in the forest.” _A very convenient event…_

            “With a saddle and everything?  How fortunate for you,” Hjalmar’s voice was an amused rumble.  “Why aren’t you looking at me, lass?  Are you afraid of me?” He was certain his crimson-painted face was eerie in the night’s shadow, even more so as he grinned.

            She did not find his smile charming, shying away even more.  The horse snorted, stamping a hoof and flicking its ears back uncertainly. The girl stammered a response, “I um… this is really awkward… I don’t think… can we not ever talk about this ever again?  Just ignore that you saw this.”

            “I’ve never been to Whiterun, truth be told but I hear they have quite the dungeon in Dragonsreach,” Hjalmar said nonchalantly, still rumbling with amusement as he stepped forward, clasping the reins of the horse in his large paw of a hand. “You’re a thief, not too different than myself.  I can appreciate good work when I see it.”  He ran his free hand over the stallion’s neck.

            “I thought you were a bandit,” the Breton girl responded, her fingers tightening around the reins. “Bandits aren’t like thieves.”

            “How so?” Hjalmar Bearblood challenged her, looming over her.  She might have backed away, had the horse not been there and had she not wanted to keep her hands on its reins.

            “I don’t kill people,” the girl replied, finally meeting his eyes with her own, “Or rape them.”

            Hjalmar laughed at this, “Who says I rape people?”

            The girl opened her mouth to protest, then hesitated, her face falling.  Her eyes shifted about before she spouted back, “You didn’t deny killing people, though.” _Childish_ , Hjalmar noted, hands firm around the reins as she tried faintly to pull them away from him. _She’s young.  Frail.  Hardly fit to be on her own in such a land._  His eyes glinted darkly. _She’ll die soon.  The guards in Skyrim aren’t as forgiving as the ones in the south._

            “You’re a thief.  I could make you a bandit.  I was a thief once.”

            He saw the hesitation in her eyes.  “No,” she decided, voice serious for the first time in the entire conversation.  She did not look away from him, and as meek as she was, Hjalmar saw a spark within her eyes.  He did not deny the frown that curled his lips, his painted face unable to hide his dismay.  “I’m not a killer.”  And then, she added, “Or a _raper_.”

            _She’s trying to feign confidence.  She’s failing._ He was not afraid of her, no matter what she could do with her toothpick daggers.  Hjalmar Bearblood had been swinging a blade since before she had been a devious twinkle in her parents’ eyes. “The word you’re looking for is “rapist”,” Hjalmar responded evenly, smile flickering about his thin lips, beneath the shaggy scruff of a burgundy beard. “You killed one of those Legion men.  I remember. It was during the escape.”  When she fell silent, Hjalmar asked her, “So, how are you different from me, eh?  Bet the lad had a family and a woman.  Maybe even little ones.”

            When she didn’t respond, he pressed the topic, “If the Legion didn’t have enough reason to execute you before, they will now.”

            “I don’t plan on telling everyone that I was in that catastrophe,” Knife responded shortly, her yank on the reins sterner than before but Hjalmar did not budge. “And why should I?  The Legion was perfectly okay with killing us all without a fair trial.  They might try to finish what they started.”

            _Strange for a thief to want a fair trial.  Usually they prefer bribing games and slippery politics.  Or to not get caught at all,_ thought the Nord to himself with the slightest hint of a chuckle.  “Ah, well, it’s a shame you won’t be joining me,” Hjalmar frowned, “Unfortunately, I don’t take kindly to rejection.  So I’ll be taking your horse now, the fine stallion that you’ve found for me.” His warhammer seemed to melt into his palm, and Hjalmar Bearblood drew to his full height above her, painted face leering down at the frail Breton.

            “W-what?” the girl stammered, staring up at him, “But…”

            “Surely this came to no surprise to you,” Hjalmar retorted, “I am the Bandit King-- a title not won though conversation and understanding.”  The iron warhammer cupped behind her neck and drew her closer, the Nord glaring down into her with squinted, beads for eyes. “Reins. _Now_ , lass.”  And a pause to remind her, “And drop the knife you’ve got behind your back, it won’t save your neck when I break it with this hammer.”

            The knife, a steel and mediocre blade, clattered to the ground and the Breton girl relinquished the reins to the Nord, stepping aside when he permitted her to, and glaring at him with malice lighting her eyes. Hjalmar offered her a smug grin, but she did not respond.  Halfway disappointed, he swung his leg over the stallion, mounting the ebony horse and taking the reins in both of his hands. 

            “You’re not very gentlemanly,” the Breton said, voice edged with frostbite. “I thought Nords were all about honor.”

            “We are,” Hjalmar replied nonchalantly, a smile tugging at his thin lips and bushy beard.  “Just some not as much as others.”  With that, he dug his heels into the flanks of the stallion, his smile manifesting into a white grin as the horse reared.  The girl stumbled back almost tipping over onto her rump as the stallion charged, mane flowing in the wind. 

            At once, Hjalmar was taken away from the tiny hamlet of Riverwood, his sturdy hands clinging to the leather reins.  The buildings vanished in a veil of green vegetation and rolling hills within moments, and the Bandit King felt his shoulder-length hair blow back in the breeze.  He felt the thrill of the ride in his veins, coursing through him like adrenaline and he threw his head back, howling with deep laughter that seemed to shake the very roots that sustained the pines around him.  He was free, he was free—the Bandit King was alive and his heart carried a bitter vengeance.

            Wolves called in the night, the twin moons hanging overhead as they always did, the vast plains of Whiterun appearing before him.  It was a moonlit-bathed land, trees sparse and the occasional boulder decorating the golden field.  Hjalmar had been here before, at this very spot.  His father had taken him around, but that had been long ago. _Before he tasted my steel… and his own blood,_ thought the Bandit King with a smile on his sturdy jaw.

            His father had been a character, not far from Hjalmar’s bearishstature and appearance.  But he had favored the back of the hand as opposed to a greatsword.  His weapon was well-known in the household, but it was something none of the children had spoken of, despite the bruises and scraps.  At first, it had made sense to him; sow the seeds of fear into one’s subordinates then reign fearlessly.  As long as the subordinates feared, a leader needed not to fear a thing.  It was a philosophy he understood only later on, in his teen years.  One day, when his father had been in one of his moods, Hjalmar had dared to ask himself what would happen if he no longer feared?  That had been the day he had learned the rules of the world.

            Skyrim did not forgive, but it did reward those who lived by the laws of steel and ice. 

            The Bandit King rode onward, not abiding by the paths in fear of finding a patrol of guards.  He pressed the stallion on, heels spurring the horse onward across the golden plains.  It whinnied in protest, but he merely kicked it again.  His father’s philosophy had been brutal, but perhaps there had been some truth to it.  He rode until dawn began to break onto the horizon, casting an array of purples and pinks across the sky.  The Bandit King admired the colors as he rode to the side of a river, his stallion parched and his throat singing for water as well.  He supposed the river here had a name, but he did not know it.  It was a coursing, flowing creature, like a snake in the mountains, topped with white at each crash of water against the rocks. He dismounted the black draft horse, and permitted it to get a drink. 

            As he scooped up a handful of water and slurped it unceremoniously, his eyes caught the glimpse of red on the grass blades.  Like spilled paint, it dripped and splattered in a line, a strange and purposeful path the Nord simply couldn’t ignore.  After splashing his face and letting the droplets course through his beard, he gave the trail his attention and followed it a yard or so to the body, freshly cut at the throat.  Her eyes were glassed over, her hair dark and her skin fair.  She had been a beauty in real life, and in a way, she made a pretty corpse.  Clothes were roughly tossed onto her, ripped in some places and one of her arms was no longer in its sleeve.  Hjalmar grimly smiled at the lady, now only the memory and laugh of a cruel man someplace in the mountains.  “At least you died by the river,” He mused, dark eyes falling onto the rapids and the gleaming waters. It was a pretty enough spot to die, he supposed. There were worse places to meet one’s end… and for some reason, the burning town of Helgen came to the Bandit King’s mind, and even he gave a ghost of a shiver.

            He didn’t bury her, casting a glance over his shoulder warily at the nearby road.  The last thing he wanted was a Whiterun guard asking him what had happened here, and being recognized.  By the time he led the stallion away, the lady had been graced with at least a flower or two to take with her to death, or whatever afterlife she had preferred to believe in.  Hjalmar figured Bretons like herself did not fancy Sovngarde as much as the Nords did.  No, the Bretons had their magic, gizmos, and damned curiosity… but in a way, he felt mournful for her.  She had been blessed with a pretty enough face, and maybe even a pretty enough heart.  He would never know, but wouldn’t suffer the dead haunting him while he made his way back to the Eastmarch.

            The Nord dug his heels into the ebony stallion’s flanks, and the horse huffed back a snarky reply in turn, charging the cobblestone road nonetheless.  It followed the river, wrapping around the curves of the bank like a snake, with the mist-capped mountains to his left and right.  The plains of Whiterun were well behind him now, giving way to the graystone cliffs that prodded the heavens.  Night’s air filled with the thundering of his stallion’s hooves, the bearded Nord said nothing, but lifted his square head, smelling the air of his homeland and feeling the crispness of its evening wind.  The stars were shining bright now that the lights of the cities were drowned out by the wilderness and Hjalmar felt another laugh rumble through his throat and spill into the emptiness.  Somewhere, a sabre cat snarled out into the sky, and even further away was the shrill howl of wolves.  It was a cacophonous melody, but the sound of the lethal night all the same.  This symphony was what he was used to.  The music of Skyrim was not of lutes and drums.

            As his stolen steed took him from the path and into the depths of the forest once more, he kept his hand near the handle of the warhammer he had come across.  Despite the lack of cronies at his flanks and back, Hjalmar Bearblood felt every inch the king he had been declared.  Sinewy arms tightened, hands gripping the warhammer, he bared his teeth in a savage smile into the shadowy mountain forests, and he thought of the Eastmarch and its winter fury.  

            _Many bandits die, but not many come back from the dead,_ thought the Bandit King, as his mind turned to his clan of vagabonds.  How would they take his returning?  He supposed they were all sitting about the hideout, not sure who had enough wits to go about leading the raiders.  The thought made the barrel-chested Nord chortle in amusement.  _Kelda’s got the best wits of them all, and she’s a woman._   But Nord women were the smartest of all females, he decided, so perhaps she was capable enough to take control of the bandits.  

            _I will tell them of the dragon,_ he added darkly, doubting any of the lackwits would believe his tale. _Should they believe me… well, they’ll even see that the game has changed._   The songs said that only the Dragonborn could save them now.  The Legionnaires were at the throat of the Stormcloaks, the Thalmor were killing the true children of Skyrim, and now dragons were burning villages until they were naught but rubble.  _Bandits will be overlooked in a desperate time such as this…_ His thoughts travelled to Ulfric Stormcloak, and Hjalmar’s lip twitched into an even bigger smile. _Cousin, I suppose it is time there was a visit paid to your doorstep._


	8. Before the Storm - Part 4

Synestra

 

         Synestra clasped the pack about its leather strap, letting it dangle over her shoulder as she stood on the porch.  Hadvar’s uncle had adequately prepared her that morning for the journey to Whiterun, giving her a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a small goat leg that the family could spare. Casting a glance back at Ailonwe, who was still resting on the mat they had been forced to share the night before, the High Elf’s lips twitched into a smile.  The morning rays were streaming down through the windows at the perfect angle, resting on the Dunmer’s face.  She rolled over in her sleep, groaning something inaudible.  

            “That one sleeps soundly,” Hadvar remarked as he rose from a red-wooded chair that was resting on the porch.  “Are you headed to see the Jarl?”  When Synestra dipped her head in a nod, the Nord nibbled at his own lower lip, dark brown eyes moving to the streets, “I ought to go report back to General Tullius, like Prefect Valerius did.  I hope we will meet again soon, and under better circumstances.”

            “Thank you, Hadvar.  I will see that the Jarl sends aid to Riverwood so that your uncle will be safe,” Synestra responded in kind.  She checked her sword, to see if she had remembered to strap it onto her hip.  A few poultices hung at her hip, contained within flasks and tightly sealed.  As she bid Hadvar, Alvor, and Sigrid farewell with the wave of a hand, the Altmer began along the one trail that plunged through Riverwood’s center.

            Looking about the meager town, she caught the glimpse of two children playing with a wiry-furred dog, while a dark-haired Imperial swept the porch of a general goods store.  A lady walked by her, shooting a strange, suspicious look that only made Synestra focus her single, blazing eye upon the ground.  Awkwardly, she continued her way out of the village, speculating how many thought her to be part of the Thalmor’s agency.  Most of the Altmer that flooded the Thalmor’s ranks were either young hopefuls or old, conservative foxes.  The youthful ones aspired to have glory, the cunning foxes wanted nothing more than the power they believed was promised to them…

             She was a scarred, eerie looking thing, towering above the others with her thin legs, muscular arms, and golden hair flowing to her shoulders.  As she passed the final wooden, creaking building, she heard someone ask if “anyone had seen their horse”, and how it missing.  Had she been in the mood to help with more trivial tasks, she might have stopped to help.  But even glancing over at the fretful man, she received nothing but alarmed, suspicious looks, and so, the Altmer took her leave from Riverwood.  _If only they knew I mean to protect them from the dragon…_ She thought with a semi-bitter curl of her scarred lips.

            The winding road took her across the chuckling river and into the vibrant woods.  As pines loomed over her, she heard the brief snarls of a wolf before it left her to wander down the path, its black pelt merging into the darkness.  She walked until the treeline, the evergreen trees ceasing at a ridge overlooking the vast golden lands of the Whiterun Hold.  The morning sun rested to her right, blinding her temporarily so she put a hand to her brow to shield it away from the scene before her.  There were no rolling hills upon this plains—everything was as flat so that one could see for miles.  Whiterun, she presumed, was the towering city in the center, situated atop a single, peak-like hill that rose from the flatness of the plains.

            As she descended the ridge, a cluster of deer sprung across the plains, mere specks compared to the grassland.  Ancient, lightly spinning windmills danced on the breeze, turning and towering over farmlands.  Somewhere below, the Altmer saw specks walking the cobblestone road, one next to a carriage or wagon of some kind.  A few cattle and pigs dotted the farmer’s turfs, but they were not as impressive as the rows of endless vegetables.  It was cabbages, primarily, the Altmer noticed as she neared one of the outskirt farmlands.  

            But it wasn’t the cabbages that made her draw her steel, dropping the sack that Alvor had handed to her before her departure.  What they were fighting was something out of legends, a towering, gray-skinned giant with nothing but a small collection of skins about his loin.  The cap of his head was balding, but the sides cascaded with thick, matted black hair, much like its heavy beard.  A club that looked more akin to a regular tree branch was in hand, pounding the ground in front of a tall, dark-haired Nord.  

            “Aela, hit him in the eyes!  The eyes!” the Nord man was thundering, battle axe embedded into the back of the giant’s leg to no avail.  As he brought it around to hit the leg once more, a third armored warrior went for its opposite leg, trying futilely to stab through its thick gray skin with her sword. Synestra only saw a glimpse of the auburn-haired woman with the bow before she plunged into the melee, the screams of the farmers filling her ears and raking against her eardrums.

            Synestra’s blade scarcely cut the giant’s hide, its club thudding next to her and smashing an unfortunate shrub.  Pulling back, the Altmer clutched her free hand, flames blazing about her fingers as she unleashed the fireball at the giant’s woeful black eyes. As it reared and shrieked in searing agony, its club thudded from its hands, both of which concealed the fire burning at its eyes.  As Synestra prepped another blaze of fire, the first arrow thudded into the giant’s shoulder, just next to the heart.  The second was better-aimed at the flailing, screaming monstrosity, catching the giant under the jaw with a sickening thud.

            As it began to topple backwards, the Nord man sent his heavy axe into its knee, then once more into its chest.  While it rasped out its dying call, the Nord turned, looking over his shoulder at her with a furrowed, dark brow. As his mouth opened to speak, the woman cut him off.  “You handle yourself well.  You would make for a decent Shield-Sister.”  Synestra turned to greet her, and found herself staring into the pale eyes of a Nord woman, face painted with dark jade stripes.  Her hair was a tangle of auburn, contrasting against her fair skin.  Bow still in hand, she was menacing in her fur-trimmed steel plated armor.

            “What is a Shield-Sister?” Synestra inquired, wiping the blade off on the grass. 

            “An outsiders, eh?  Never heard of the Companions before?” the Nord woman had an amused glint in her light eyes.  “We are an order of warriors.  We are brothers and sisters in honor.  And we show up to solve problems if the coin is good enough.”

            It reminded her of the Fighter’s Guild, back in Cyrodiil and some of the other provinces.  But usually those types of groups were full of children with toothpicks for weapons.  Hopeful and eager to kill, they did not understand the darkness that lurked in the shadows.  They wanted fame and fortune… and most paid the ultimate price for it.  But Nords were different, the Altmer told herself.  They didn’t sell themselves as easily as others did.  

            “Honorable mercenaries,” Synestra commented, sheathing her sword. “There’s not many of those left in Tamriel.”

            “We’ve a bit more honor than your average mercenary band,” the dark-haired Nord said gruffly, but Synestra paid him hardly any mind.  Most mercenary bands declared they were honorable… And most were less than honorable.

            “You should see Kodlak Whitemane, up in Jorrvaskr, if you would like to join us,” the Nord woman continued.  “The old man’s got a good sense for people.  I think he would like you.”

            “I will consider it,” Synestra responded earnestly with the nod of her head. “Thank you, and… be careful around here, I suppose.” She gestured to the giant’s corpse before picking up her bag, and began on her way without another word.  Fighter’s Guilds, honorable or not, were of less importance than her own quest to speak with the Jarl.

            The road to Whiterun was cobblestone and winding, just as any other route in Skyrim.  To her right, the stables lay, full of dark black horses that looked of a more hardy lineage.  A carriage sat nearby, its driver halfway through a bottle of red wine, leaning back in the seat and letting the sunlight bathe his wrinkled features.  A dog yipped and ran by, a mongrel stray with knotted fur and mud caking its underside.  A nearby stableboy spat at it and sent a rock flying after the cur. 

            Synestra did not dare to make eye contact with any of the guards, focusing her eyes forward as she ascended the hill, passing through the outermost wall of Whiterun’s capital.  The guards donned yellow tunics over their mail, and worked with their helmets on, concealing their faces.  A few were atop the wall, overlooking the plains, while others were closer to the heavy oaken doors of Whiterun, dutifully staring forward as if at permanent attention.

            The one that hailed her was a male Nord, judging from his brassy voice and deep accent. “Halt!  The city’s closed with dragons about. Urgent business only.” His axe did not leave its leather sheath, but she took note of it nonetheless.  With the Thalmor about in surging numbers, she doubted that anyone in Whiterun would be pleased to see another High Elf.  Synestra raised her hands to a moderate, defenseless level, and she replied.

            “Riverwood calls for the Jarl’s aid.  I am a messenger.”

            “Riverwood’s in danger, too?” Why it was surprising was beyond her.  “Better go on in.  Go find the Jarl at Dragonsreach, at the top of the hill.”  With a nod, she was free to proceed, and so the High Elf did. 

            Whiterun was not as complicated as the cities of Cyrodiil, but it was still fairly large.  As the others had told her, Dragonsreach stood at the peak of the hill, looming over the rest of the capital and casting its fierce shadow down upon its denizens.  Immediately to her right was a blacksmith, something she noted for later purposes.  The idea of staying in Legionnaire armor seemed all too offensive to the actual soldiers of the army.  That and she didn’t want to cause any trouble over her uniform.  Thankfully, enough Altmer were actually in the Legion that she doubted anyone would stop her.  Had she been clad in the blue and gray of the Stormcloaks… that might have been another tale entirely.  Synestra moved her single eye from the Imperial working the anvil to the streets where children and adults roamed.

            She passed the marketplace, where a woman sold vegetables and another sold jewelry.  The stench of the local tavern hit her nostrils and she turned her head away from it, trying to hide the disgust written on her golden face.  A girl was sitting by the steps of a shop, nothing but a cup in front of her.  Three meager septims lay within its maw, and Synestra graced it with a fourth and fifth, offering a slight smile to the child before continuing to the next section of the bustling town.  A tree, withering and decrepit, loomed over a set of benches.  Synestra assumed it might have been beautiful… once.  But now, it was a shell, sitting in the dry winds of Whiterun Hold.  

            She ignored the sounds of a husband and wife quarrelling outside their doorstep, and the arrogant screeching of a priest near a Talos statue.  The steps leading to the fortress atop the hill was all she focused on, and Synestra soon found herself staring at the large, ornate doors leading into what they called the Dragonsreach.  Arching boughs briefly sheltered her from the sun as she walked the wooden bridge, looking not remotely impressed by the guards at the doors, who eyed her with hard, stony pupils behind their visors.  The High Elf pushed the door open, and found herself at the end of a giant hall.

            Synestra passed a maid, sweeping the wooden floor with her head low, and climbed the steps with quiet resolve. A smoldering pit sat before the Jarl’s throne, its fires burning quietly, the smoke pleasing to her nose.  There were grand dining tables on either sides of the pit, lined with at least twenty chairs apiece.  Teal plates and pitchers were scattered about their surfaces, but the chairs were empty.  The plates were empty.  The only noise other than the fire pits were voices at the far end of the hall.

            “I only counsel caution. We cannot afford to act rashly in times like these,” a man was saying next to the Jarl. “I just think we need a bit more information before we act…”

            He might have continued, and Synestra might have proceeded to listen more, but the sound of steel being drawn quieted the conversation.  Making her way down the steps was a Dunmer woman, very much unlike the Altmer’s former traveling companion, Ailonwe.  This one had rough eyes, her face tattooed, and her hair a bright fiery color.  Leather armor clinked softly against each other with every step, and the Dunmer’s lip curled into a violent scowl.

            “What is the meaning of this interruption?” declared the Dunmer woman, sword pointed at the Altmer.

            “A dragon destroyed Helgen!” Synestra said, loud enough so that the entirety of the hall could hear her words.  Pausing, the Altmer released the hilt of her sword, which she had gripped at some point during the Dunmer’s advance.  “I have been sent from Riverwood by Alvor.  He is afraid that Riverwood is next.”

            “Alvor?  He’s is… the smith, isn’t he?” the man upon the throne mused.  He was older, though not wrinkled and useless with age.  His hair was a fair mix of blonde and grey, his circlet golden with rubies embedded within it.  The Jarl of Whiterun wore a crimson tunic, a cape of ermine fur fastened about his shoulders by pure gold.  Arms bared, Synestra could see thin lines and threadmarks upon his skin—marks of a soldier who had seen far too much battle. One of his rough, calloused hands stroked at his medium-length beard, thought overpowering his fair eyes. “A reliable sort of fellow… Not prone to flights of fancy…”

            Jarl Balgruuf the Greater’s musings lasted a few seconds, and then his voice steeled with seriousness, “And you’re sure Helgen was destroyed… By a dragon?” Suspicious was alight in his eyes, but Synestra willed herself to not shy away.  “This wasn’t some… Stormcloak raid gone wrong?”

            “No, sir, I was there,” Synestra decided it would be best not to describe why she had been in Helgen in the first place. “The dragon destroyed Helgen.  And, last I saw, it was headed this way.”

            “By Ysmir, Irileth was right!” Jarl Balgruuf swore, his forehead falling into his curled knuckles as he propped his arm against the armrest.  “Proventus!” He called the Imperial man to his other side, “What say you now?  Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls?  Against a _dragon_?”  The Imperial, abashed, grimly shook his head in response.

            It was the Dunmer that spoke next, “My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once.  It’s in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking about the mountains…”

            “The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!  He’ll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric’s side and attack him!” the man named Proventus protested.

            _Ulfric… He’s caused quite an amount of chaos in Skyrim, hasn’t he,_ Synestra reflected on what Hadvar’s uncle said of the rebel king, and her features darkened.  _Rebellion or not, Riverwood needs aid.  Dragons don’t discriminate.  They kill everything._   She thought of the Imperial that had owned the sword at her hip, and her stomach twisted itself into a knot.

            “Enough!” Jarl Balgruuf roared, slamming his fist into the armrest. “I’ll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!”  He turned to the Dunmer woman, voice still edged with a snarl. “Irileth!  Send a detachment to Riverwood at once!”  The Dunmer woman bowed and took her leave without another word. He dismissed Proventus hastily, the Imperial seeming all the more bitter as he stalked his way down the steps.

            As Proventus vanished from the hall and Irileth let the oaken doors slam with a mighty thud, the Jarl turned his gaze to the High Elf, and she uncomfortably shifted her weight. “Well done.  You sought me out on your own initiative.  You’ve done Whiterun a service and I won’t forget it.”

            “It was nothing, my lord,” Synestra said with a bow, and as she rose to leave, she heard him clear his throat.  Pausing, the High Elf’s single eye met his, and the Jarl rose from his chair.

            “There is… another thing you could do for me,” Jarl Balgruuf admitted, hands fingering about a small tangle in his sandy beard.  “Suitable for someone of your… particular talents.  If you are interested, that is.”

            “Whatever I can do to help,” replied Synestra.  She was a stranger to this land, but that need not mean that she should let it perish in flames.  The dragons would soon be a threat to all of Tamriel, one that even the Thalmor couldn’t ignore. 

            “Come, let us find Farengar, my court wizard,” Balgruuf nodded to her and began down the steps, towards a room that Synestra had not yet noticed to her right.  She fell into step behind the Jarl, quietly avoiding eye contact from a young dark-haired boy that had crawled into a wooden chair by the table.

            The court wizard’s office was a small branching room, the primary thing inside being a large desk with an array of papers within it.  Farengar, Synestra presumed, was the thin-built Nord with a violet hood drawn over his features.  He leaned over his desk, his back to an enchanting table and alchemy set.  A woman stood near Farengar, a neatly folded letter in hand, her face concealed by a leathery brown hood.  

            “Farengar,” The Jarl paid the woman no mind, though Synestra’s good eye wavered down to the sword at her hip before looking at the wizard. “I think I have found someone who can help you with your dragon project.”  The wizard lifted his eyes from the paperwork to the Jarl, his brows raising. “Go ahead and fill her in with all of the details.”

            With that, Jarl Balgruuf left the office, the hooded woman quietly standing in the corner, hands on her hips and lips pursed shut.  Farengar eyed her up and down, moving around his lengthy oaken desk, arms crossed deftly into his massive purple sleeves.  She could hardly tell anything about him, due to his floor-length robe.  He seemed young to hold the title of court wizard, but his face was mostly veiled by the shadows cast from his clothing.  His eyes were sharp as needles, prickling over her skin and scrutinizing every inch of her taller, sleek form.

            “So, the Jarl thinks you can be use to me?” He inquired, but it was by far a rhetorical question. “Yes, I… Could use someone to fetch something for me.  Well… when I say “fetch”, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there…” Farengar chuckled at his own joke, but his visitor seemed unimpressed.

            “So, this may be a wild goose chase,” Synestra concluded in her typical dull voice, “What does this tablet have to do with the dragons?”

            “Ahhh!” the wizard began, tapping his forehead with two fingers, “No mere brute mercenary but a thinker! Perhaps even a scholar?” He questioned her with the raise of his eyebrows. “You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumors, impossibilities.  One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible…” Synestra silently agreed with him, inclining her head for him to continue.  “But I began to search for information about dragons—where had they gone all of those years ago? And where were they coming from?”

            “I assume this tablet has an inkling of information, at the least?” Synestra asked, raising an inquiring brow.

            “I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow,” Farengar informed her, voice nonchalant and light.  Perhaps that was because he realized he would not have to go fetch the item himself.  Nevertheless, the name “Bleak Falls Barrow” rang a familiar tune in her ears.  Where had she heard it from… “It’s called the Dragonstone, and it’s said to contain the maps of ancient dragon burial sites.”

            “Burial sites,” Synestra repeated, unsure why dead dragons would interest him more than the live ones.

            “Go to Bleak Falls Barrow and find this tablet- no doubt interred in the main chamber- and bring it to me.  Simplicity itself,” Farengar finished, arms tucked into his sleeves once more. 

            “Why do you say that it’s most likely in the main chamber?” Synestra inquired as she turned to go.

            “Because, that’s how it always is,” Farengar answered with the wave of his hand. “Surrounded by traps, the bodies of unfortunate adventurers, and maybe even a monster or two.” His sarcasm was amusing enough to the wandering warrior, but a chanced look at the hooded woman and Synestra saw only the slight curve of a scowl.

            Taking a quick look over his flowing robes and thin structure, the elf remarked, “Well, it’s a good thing I’m going instead of you.” Amusement sounded strange on her dry voice, but she curled her lip in a small smile anyways.  Not waiting for a response, she left him to his desk and companion, departing the office with her pack still strapped to her back.  Though her sword was snug in its sheath, she checked it as she walked out, then gave a tug to her bracers to ensure that they were secured.  _As much as I hate to admit it…_ Thought the Altmer as she slid out the doors of Dragonsreach.  _He’s probably right._   Ruins were seldom left alone nowadays, frequent homes for bandits and other nasty creatures. _It can never be so simple, can it?_   Bitterness was on her breath as she stared off into the distance, at the craggy mountains that painted weird silhouettes.  With the whisk of a sigh, Synestra began down the steps.


	9. Before the Storm - Part 5

Chiran

 

            By the time that he had awakened, the bearlike Nord and the lithe girl had stolen away.  Had Chiran cared for their safety, he might have asked Ralof about their sudden disappearances.  As it so happened, Chiran did not care.  Instead, the slender Khajiit went about folding the rug he had slept upon into a pleasant and neat fashion.  He found Ralof outside, sitting on a stump behind his sister’s abode with a twig between his thin lips.  “Good morning,” He bid the orange cat, voice sounding strengthened by rest.  Chiran nodded to him, not bothering to sit next to the blonde Stormcloak. “Got a long journey ahead of us.  And no coin for horses.”  He sounded a tad bitter.

            “I can walk,” Chiran responded in his usual solemn tone. His slitlike eyes flitted over to the river, watching it brush the stones and smooth them over.

            He had decided to join the Stormcloaks in the end.  Ralof made it sound like an adventure waiting to happen, one for glory and justice in the name of the Nine Divines.  Chiran wasn’t sure he believed in the Divines, and if they were there, then he wasn’t sure they were particularly as divine as people made them out to be.  The Stormcloaks were fighting the Legionnaires, and that was a good enough cause to make Chiran join the war.  The Thalmor pulled the strings in the end, the Khajiit supposed.  Their faction seemed to thrive off of festering in arrogance, something that the striped male abhorred to no end.  Ignorance, he supposed, was forgivable in its own right.  But arrogance left a bad taste in his mouth.

            Years ago, the Aldmeri Dominion had declared themselves the saviors, as they had brought back the vanished moons after the Void Nights.  Chiran didn’t know much about elves, but he refused the notion that they somehow held celestial powers.  In the end, they were flesh and blood, like a deer in the forest or a worm beneath his boots.  Worms couldn’t call back the moons into the sky. Yet his people believed such, piously following the laws of the Mane and bending knee to the Thalmor agents that had ravaged the land.  It shamed him that his kind was so gullible and weak.   

            The striped one returned into the house to finish gathering his things.  Most of it was borrowed, as his original traveling gear had been lost to the guards that had captured him at the border.  Oddly, the new bow fit into his hand well enough, as well as some of the old battered Stormcloak armor that they had found in the caverns. The helm had been bent beyond repair, but the rest had been good enough to salvage. His boots fastened, a small sash of a bag around his shoulder, and the cat was ready to depart.  Riverwood smelled of fresh innocence, naivety, and complacency.

            Ralof kissed his sister’s cheek goodbye, and waved to her as they departed.  Within moments, they were gone from Riverwood’s sheltering, peaceful boughs, and were thrust into the wilderness of Skyrim once more.  The road wound through the woods, crossing over the creek and vanishing into the depths of the evergreen forests.  Ralof lead the way by a step or two, Chiran keeping a close eye on their surroundings.  But the forests yielded nothing but birdsong and the occasional rustle of bushes.  The sky overhead gave no signs of rain, though the clouds were white puffballs in various abstract shapes.

            They broke the treeline in a short span of time, the winding road caressing the side of a hill.  Pines sparsely dotted the slopes leading to the Whiterun flatlands, boulders and jutting small rock formations marking the start of the golden plains.  Ralof led Chiran further down the road, a hand over his dark earthy eyes to act as a visor against the blinding sunlight.

            “Is it wise?” Chiran asked gruffly, “If we travel the main routes, we are likely to find Legionnaires or guards.” They had not fully recuperated.  Beneath Ralof’s eyes were bags of exhaustion, and Chiran felt his own limbs ache with remembrance of their previous flight.

            “I doubt the hold guards would mess with us if there’s dragons about.  And some Stormcloak soldiers might be travelling in the roads, too,” Ralof answered him with an amiable, hopeful smile.  Chiran didn’t share his enthusiasm but nodded all the same. “There’s a Stormcloak camp in the foothills to the east.  We might be able to borrow horses from them.”

            “That would be generous of them,” was all Chiran would reply with, his orange eyes narrowed as he scanned the plains.

            Whiterun, he presumed, was the towering fortress in the center of the plains, a mighty silhouette in the distance.  But it was a place they would not be visiting, as far as he knew.  Their road was to the Eastmarch, brushing through the northern half of the Rift and traveling onward to the icy, ancient city of Windhelm.  It would be a long trip, even with horses to carry them there.

            “So, why take up my offer?” Ralof asked him when they had reached a fork in the road.  The Stormcloak soldier veered onto the right path, and the striped Khajiit followed without question, their backs turning to the hulking city in the background. “Not many Khajiits are in Skyrim.”

            “They tried to kill us,” Chiran said plainly, adjusting the sash of blue that draped about his chainmail. Traveling might have been easier without the armor, but Ralof had warned him that travelers seldom reached their destinations without running into trouble along the way.  Such was the way of the northernlands, the tiger supposed.  Flicking his lynx-like, pierced ears, the sniper added, “And the Thalmor are Tamriel’s problem.  Not Skyrim’s.”     

            “Aye… I can respect those reasons.”

            The winding road carried them to the east, rounding a few sloping hills.  Ralof occasionally would look to the tops of the ridges, squinting and blotting out the sun’s piercing rays with a hand.  Though he muttered that the camp should be around the foothills of the jagged gray mountains, Chiran saw nothing of the hidden Stormcloaks, nor did he smell the overpowering stench of an army camp.  It was perhaps an hour when they came across the first sign that someone even walked the road they were taking.

            Chiran supposed she had been a woman of Skyrim, but he couldn’t tell much.  He knew the Redguards from their dark skin, the Nords from their bulky arms and fair complexion.  But the others were lost on him, and he shook his head at the body.  “Someone left flowers on her,” Ralof observed.  She had been dead for awhile, Chiran assumed, and the bugs were starting to get into her well enough.  The shrieking aroma that drifted to his nostrils made him snort the air back out and the Khajiit turned away.

            “Shouldn’t we bury her?” Ralof asked, “It’s the Nord way.”  Chiran didn’t see a point in it, but humored his traveling companion nonetheless.  By the time they had laid her to rest, the afternoon sun had nestled itself into the heavens, and Chiran fought to get the smell of the corpse from his nose.  Ralof erected a stone for her, a blank rock roughly in the shape of a flat blue-gray slate.  It was a shoddy replacement for a headstone, but at least he had put forth effort.  It was more than what Chiran would have done for the lifeless husk.

            They resumed after Ralof said a few words for the woman, and the following hour was silent in thought.  Nothing disturbed their trek, though once Chiran peered down into the gorge where the river ran to see a brown bear fishing off of a fallen log.  It paid them no mind though, too far down the steep crag to reach them.  A hare darted in front of their path and Chiran fired an arrow through its gut to make it into their dinner.  The two stopped to cook and eat it as the sun dipped its lower half beneath the horizon.  Though it scarcely made a meal between both the starving Nord and the thin Khajiit, the bread that Gerdur had given them for their trip was filling enough to compensate.

            As the twilight began to reign over the wilderness of Skyrim, a distant light was visible, burning against the early night.  Chiran noticed it first, his eyes better accustomed to the darkness.  They made their way towards it, Ralof holding up hope that it was the hidden Stormcloak camp, though, Chiran wasn’t so optimistic.  Bandits had killed the woman, and though such roguish individuals usually travelled, there was nothing saying that they hadn’t made their fortress in the foothills.

            The neighing of horses was the second thing that Chiran noted, as they drew closer to the firelight in the distance.  There was the distant sound of a hammer upon a blade, and Chiran quietly tutted his disapproval.  For a hidden camp, this was certainly a loud one, though, perhaps it was only called hidden because it was so much off the road.  Trudging up the hills and ignoring the burs that had sunk into his boots, Ralof kept his hand near the axe at his hip, and Chiran thought tonotch a shoddily-fletched arrow he had found in the caverns below Helgen.

             Ralof broke through the shadows first when they came upon the camp, relaxing when he saw the residents of the camp.  Chiran was quietly impressed by the size and population.  He suspected there were at least thirty tents scattering the hills, nestled in the mountains.  There were no plainly found banners streaming in the wind, though, a shack-like structure carried the sigil of a roaring bear upon cloths that hung from the outer walls. _Blue background with a white bear.  Stormcloak colors,_ Chiran noted, and a man wearing the skins of a bear over his steel-plated armor greeted them with a mighty shout.

            “More brethren for the campsite?” His hair was a rich brown that fell to his shoulders and his nose was broad and flat.  A broadsword was in his hand, though its tip was halfway embedded into a log.  “Did Ulfric not hear that our supplies grow too thin to support our number?  Or are you the supply boy?” When Chiran shadowed Ralof into the camp, the bear-clad warrior heartily laughed, “Hoped there’s no fur balls in the foodstuffs!”  The others roared and Chiran felt his fur prickle with distaste.

            “Hjornskar Head-Smasher!” Ralof declared, “Don’t you recognize a friend when you see one?”

            “Shor’s bones, it’s Ralof, returned from the dead,” Hjornskar’s voice drew deathly quiet, the camp’s raucous talk and chortles fading into the late evening.  Only the crackle of flames interrupted the silence, and the one they called Head-Smasher withdrew his sword from its wooden half-sheath. “Audun, get these two some mead!”

            The officer led them to a fire, one of many in the hills, and bid them to sit on one of the freshly cut logs.  His broadsword was discarded next to a stump, and in his right hand was a silver goblet, swishing with sweet mead.  Audun, a plain-faced squire boy with ratty hair, handed Chiran a goblet not unlike Hjornskar’s, and the Khajiit inclined his head in a silent thanks to the boy. 

            “Ulfric was here yesterday,” Hjornskar said grimly, “Gave us quite the tale and we sent him with a few of our best and a horse to take him back to Windhelm.  Said you were dead, along with some of the others.”

            “Ulfric?  He’s alive?” Ralof said breathlessly, “Then… the rebellion…”

            “It will continue with Ulfric at its head, aye,” Hjornskar replied firmly, “Galmar Stone-Fist was ready to take up arms in his stead, but that will not be the case.  Not this time, at least.”

            Chiran drank in the mead, and found it to be more pleasing that what he had expected.  It was sweet, unlike some of the alcohol in the southern lands that left a bitter taste in his mouth.  Flavors of honey and berries danced about his tongue, thick and warm against the cold breeze.  The hills were dusted with light snow in some areas, the jagged peaks above them circled by a cloud of blue-gray mist.  He took another sip of the mead, fighting back an embarrassing purr of delight.  In Elsweyr, it had been dangerous to take beverages from strangers.  Often, such liquids were laced with skooma, and could leave one in an almost catatonic state. Ralof trusted the drink, and so Chiran did, and he took in the rest of the goblet greedily, sparing not a drop.

            All the while, Ralof and Hjornskar conversed, the latter prodding the popping flames with a decent-sized stick.  “Some of the Jarls have declared for Ulfric’s cause.  This mead was a gift from Jarl Laila Law-Giver.  Begged old Maven Black-Briar for it, I’d imagine.  Or bought it all for the Stormcloaks herself.  Must’ve cost quite the gold,” the Head-Smasher lifted an empty bottle, a grin twitching on his face. 

            “So the Rift is with us.  That leaves the very east of Skyrim in Stormcloak hands,” Ralof smiled, though his eyes were still tired from the recent events. 

            “Jarl Korir and Jarl Skald have also decided to support Ulfric’s claim,” Hjornskar added, “The rest have thrown in their lot with the Legion curs.” He spat into the flames.

            “Even Balgruuf?”

            “He’s yet to give his answer yet, the blithering coward.”

            “Probably waiting to see which side prevails.”

            “It’s not about prevailing,” Hjornskar gruffly stated, his long hair cast red with the firelight reflecting off of it, “It’s about the old traditions of this land that have been ruined by the Empire, ruined by the Thalmor.  Independence is the only way Skyrim can maintain its identity.  The south, soft ways have begun to spoil the land.” His fawn eyes moved to Chiran, and he added pointedly, abruptly, “Not many non-Nords join the Stormcloaks.  Where did you get this one?”

            Ralof uncomfortably glanced at Chiran, then answered, “I don’t know what Ulfric told you about the ambush.  We were escorting him, trying to get him someplace safe.  He had been in hiding since… what happened with Torygg…” The blonde shifted his weight and Audun poured him another goblet’s worth of mead. Sourly, Ralof took a swig then continued, “We were almost to Cyrodiil, thought it would be the last place that they would look.  But we were wrong.  Someone must’ve told them where we were headed because they were there in full-force.  General Tullius led the attack. But you know how the traffic between provinces has been.  There were other travelers caught in the ambush.  Chiran here was one of them.  There were others, too.  A horse thief and some mage-girl wanting to go to Winterhold’s college to learn magic. All destined for the axeman’s block.”

            “Kill the bystanders? For what?  Being there?” Hjornskar’s scornful laugh was thunderous and yet scathingly harsh. “Typical Empire politics.”

            “I don’t know who all made it,” Ralof admitted, “There were a lot of us to be executed.  They managed to cut down Brandir before the dragon came.  Poor lad.  But a brave soldier until the bitter end.”

            “Brandir?  Aye, I recall him…” Hjornskar drank deep, remorse in his scowl. “Good soldier. True son of Skyrim, that one.” He address Chiran with stiff politeness. “I am glad you have chosen to join us.  At least, I suspect as much from your armor.  Cat-folk are usually frowned upon in Skyrim, though, as I’m sure you’ve gathered.”

            “Ulfric will allow any to join his cause,” Ralof protested.

            “I’m not saying he won’t, but I’m saying that there might be trouble with some of the ah… More vocal, radical members,” The Head-Smasher warned the cat, “If you fight for us and shoot as many damn Imperials as you can, I take no issue with you.  Others might not be so forgiving.”

            Chiran was not sure what he was getting at.  “Let them have their opinions,” the tiger said calmly, his tail tip twitching, “I wish to fight the Legionnaires.”  His apathy seemed to stun the armored officer, but he merely nodded.

            “Hjornskar, we were hoping to borrow a pair of horses for the journey to the Eastmarch,” Ralof started, but the officer held up a hand.

            “We have many horses.  There’s a paint gelding and a mare tied to the posts by the crates,” Hjornskar Head-Smasher pointed and as he said, two horses stood separated from the others. “Both of their riders fell awhile back, been letting anyone use them until someone got the gold to buy them.  Not the best warhorses, but they can run fast and carry a rider without too much complaint.”

            “Thank you,” Ralof nodded to him, “It is very appreciated.”

            “Stay for as long as you need to,” Hjornskar added generously, “We’ve few supplies left, but our tents are always open to aid other true sons of Skyrim.  Even if one of you is a tad furrier than the rest of us, eh?”  Chiran was quiet as he laughed, sipping his mead pensively as he stared into the swirl of flames.

            Twilight faded fast enough before their eyes, and soon the only light than the stars were the campfires.  A full-sized skeever roasted on one, while the leg of a goat was being torn into by a hulking warrior that the Nords called Rikard the Roaring.  A pretty enough lass had a lute and began to sing, her voice tuned mostly and her dark raven’s hair tied in a bun close to her head. Her deft and light fingers strummed the threadlike stread with expertise, her eyes painted red over the lids and her lips matching the vibrant crimson shade.

            One man hollered vulgar things at her and all she did was bat her lashes at him, then sit upon the stump of a pine they had cut away as a makeshift chair.  Some of the men, already tipsy and nearing drunk, gathered around her feet like children to a maid telling them a story.  She giggled at them all, light eyes sweeping across them while some of the female Stormcloaks huffed in the corner at the men’s antics. Chiran sat next to Ralof, saying nothing but watch her with his curious apricot eyes.  Bards had been around Cyrodiil, and very few had traversed the sands of his homeland.  He had heard them perform once or twice, and usually loathed the songs and tales they had in their repertoire.  But he feigned interest for the sake of his companion and the environment.

            “ _We drink to our youth, and to days come and gone, for the Age of Oppression is now nearly done!”_ sang the girl with the full breasts and obsidian hair, clad in a low-cut ivory top and a rusty-toned skirt.  The Nords seemed to know this song; a few _whooped_ , a few hollered, but the cheering was unanimous among them all, their bawdy voices joining her, “ _We’ll drive out the Empire from this land that we own. With our blood and our steel, we will take back our home.  All hail to Ulfric!  You are the High King! In your great honor, we drink and we sing.”_

            At the word “drink”, the Nords clashed their goblets together, and mead was spilt, but no one seemed to care.  A few began clapping, a few began stomping their feet.  The noise was raucous, and though Chiran’s ears pressed against his scalp in annoyance, he listened all the same. 

            “ _We’re the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives.  And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies! But this land is ours and we’ll see it wiped clean of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams!_ ”

            The tune ended with shouts and cries of “Death to the Imperials!” , “All Hail Ulfric!”, and “Down with the Thalmor!”.  _A simple song, but effective…_ thought the Khajiit darkly.  _It inspires the soldiers…_ And that was what mattered, he supposed.  _They are so simple.  Give them a song about bravery and glory, and they throw themselves at battle as if they were gods… unable to bleed and die._  As the yelling began to subside, the bard began to strum another tune on her wooden lute.  

            “ _Alduin’s wings, they did darken the sky. His roar fury’s fire and his scales sharpened scythes. Men ran and they cowered, and they fought and they died. They burned and they bled as they issued their cries…”_ This time, there was no cacophony that accompanied her.  Silence befell the camp and Ralof tensed next to him.  _He remembers Helgen,_ thought Chiran, who could see the swirl of fire form in the ebony dragon’s mouth as it loomed over him, just beyond the headsman and his lifted axe.

            “ _We need saviors to free us from Alduin’s rage.  Heroes on the field of this new war to wage. And if Alduin wins, man is gone from this world. Lost in the shadow of the black wings unfurled,”_ He could still hear the dragon’s roars as it set the village of Helgen alight with its wrath.  A shiver crept up his spine, but it wasn’t out of fear.  It was _awe_ that the Khajiit felt, listening to her words and replaying the images through his head. “ _But then came the Tongues on that terrible day. Steadfast as winter, they entered the fray. And all heard the music of Alduin’s doom. The sweet song of Skyrim, sky-shattering Thu’um.  And so the Tongues freed us from Alduin’s rage, gave the gift of the Voice, and ushered in a new age. If Alduin’s eternal, then eternity’s done.  For his story is over and the dragons are… Gone._ ”

            But they weren’t gone.  Chiran knew, and from Ralof’s paled expression, the Khajiit knew that his companion _also_ knew.  Lethal silence covered the campfires, and the drinking had ceased entirely, the Stormcloaks shifting about unsettled and alarmed, their eyes mournful and solemn.  Hjornskar’s eyes had darkened with concern, and Ralof looked as though he was going to be ill.

            The stillness broke as the tiger rose from his log of a bench, amber eyes smoldering with as much burning fury as the flames all around the military camp.  With palms lifted, he stared at her, expressionless and mute.  The only sound was the clap of his hands in sole, uncanny applause.


	10. Before the Storm - Part 6

Knife

 

            After Hjalmar had taken off, Knife had seen no point in staying with the others.  Grabbing a few “essential” items from the household before her departure, she stole away into the night, silently cursing the Nord’s name as she stalked along the cobblestone road.  Paranoia of the spiders crept into the back of her mind.  Were they native to all parts of Skyrim?  Or were they just in the caves?  She hoped the latter was true.  Ruins were not particularly her cup of tea; household break-ins and robberies were much more tasteful to her… and typically, they were less lethal.  

            The Breton reached Whiterun within the day.  Though the road from Riverwood’s charming boughs to Whiterun’s domineering walls had been relatively short, her legs remembered the strain from the night before, and she winced with each step towards the doors.  A settlement of skins served for tents, and beneath their sheltering overhangs, Knife spotted the four Khajiit.  Their leader was gray, his locks falling to his shoulders, and his eyes squinting at her from within.  Awkwardly, the Breton shuffled on by, trying not to stare.

            The guards turned their wary eyes to focus on her despite the clean clothes Gerdur had “lent” her (she had no intentions of adventuring back to Riverwood in order to return it).  Knife didn’t give the guards a second look, reaching out to grab the metallic ring to open the gates.

             Strangely, the yellow-clad guards didn’t bother to help her into the city, instead keeping a stiff, vigilant stance with their eyes out at the horizon.  Briefly, Knife wondered if news of the dragon had reached Whiterun… and promptly decided it wasn’t her business. _If they want to deal with it, sure.  Go ahead.  Get burned to a crisp._   With a shudder, the thief recalled the charred corpses she had darted around in Helgen, dodging the falling bricks as towers collapsed and feeling the heat of fire singe her face. 

            The Breton girl walked the streets of Whiterun, her pack over one shoulder.  Ahead of her, a few children chased each other, their laughter a stark contrast to the shrieks and wails she had heard just the day before.  Knife tried to muster up a smile at them as they raced past, but couldn’t find it in herself.  She continued almost doggedly up the hill, the sounds of an anvil being pounded on ricocheting somewhere in the drumming background noise.  There were clips of conversations all around her, mixing in with the sound of an Imperial man nailing a “For Sale” sign on a homey looking building to her right.

            “This war’s as stupid as our feud with Clan Gray-Mane,” a Nordic woman was saying to another woman with gray hair, who scolded her for not being careful about what she said in public. 

            “Can you spare a coin?” a Redguard beggar was pestering a dark-haired woman at a stall, who turned him down instantaneously.  He skulked away, like a dog that had been kicked, his dark eyes scouring the crowd to find his next target.  Knife pointedly avoided him in the crowd.

            “Have you tried mercenary work?  It might suit you,” a man was saying to a dark elf clad in leather armor, but Knife didn’t care to eavesdrop into their conversation.  She looked around the hilled city, arms folded over her chest.  Blowing a tuft of brown hair from her eyes, she made her way to a collection of buildings that rested at the peak of the first hill.  This place was a maze, she concluded, and what was worse was that every house seemed to look the same.   

            Knife needed directions.  Approaching the nearest guard, clad in the mustard yellow of Whiterun’s guard uniform, “Excuse me…” She began sweetly, toying with a strand of loose hair, “Can I have directions to the nearest general goods store?” Knife threw in the most charming smile she could manage at the time—men liked it when women smiled, right?

            The guard pointed to the direction behind her, “Behind you, to the right.  See Belethor at his store.  Sleazy little man, but he has good stock.”

            “Belethor?” Knife was taken aback, her façade slipping, “Is he a Breton?”

            “Aye, he is,” the guard remarked.

            “Oh good,” Knife responded nonchalantly, but something in her voice held a ring of annoyance.  She walked away from the guard, running her tongue over her cracked rose-tinted lips as she eyed the building designated to her.  A few lengthy strides later and she was beneath the flat, semi-sturdy boughs of the overhang.  Feeling the prying eyes of a blonde Nord near her, she averted her gaze, letting her eyes fall to her feet even as she opened the door to the shop.

            Inside the shop looked more like a home than what Knife had originally expected.  The interior was spacious with various shelves lining the walls and each surface seemed to hold an assortment of items thrown in together at random.  To her right, she saw the gaping maw of a troll’s skull, primitive and apelike with jagged fangs.  The front of a moose was carefully positioned over the burning hearth, where a pot of something tasty-smelling was boiling.  Bowls, cheeses, gems, and sacks were lain about the house-turned shop, and Knife found her eyes wandering to look at it all.  From the browning troll skull to the silver jugs and mugs, her heart raced, fingers fidgeting in her pockets.  Pack slung over her shoulder, she didn’t look the part of a merchant or townsfolk.  The ragged clothes had been tossed out in favor of a dress that cut far too low on the neck for Knife’s tastes.  She questioned Gerdur’s reasoning for having the gown at all.

            “Everything’s for sale, my friend!  Everything!” Knife nearly leapt from her own skin, her fingers tightening into fists.  She turned to see the black-haired man emerge from another room, dusting his hands off with a tattered violet rag. “If I had a sister, I’d sell her in a second!”

            _Oh, he’s different,_ thought the Breton girl dryly, standing up to the bar and unceremoniously plopping her brown satchel down on the bar with a _thud_.  Belethor’s eyes widened as Knife began to empty the bag.  First, her deft fingers found the bear fangs, still kept safely in a pocket.  Next came the _Book of the Dragonborn_ , followed by pouch of bone meal, a vial of Frostbite venom, and finally the lightly-woven blue robes she had stolen from the corpse in the dungeons. “What’ll you give me for these?” She asked, folding her arms across her chest (discreetly pulling up the rim of her clothes to hide herself better).

            “My, you certainly have been… busy…” Belethor eyed the bone meal warily. “Let’s see here, we have cave bear fangs, some questionable powder, venom, and mage robes.  And a book.” His eyes never left the items from the moment they were on the table, his hands picking through them carefully, as if checking for faults or errors.  He took the robes last, inspecting their make with what Knife assumed was an expert’s eye.  She was certain he had seen robes of this like before.

            “I went adventuring,” Knife shrugged carelessly, more eager to hear how much she was going to receive for her plunder.

            “Where about?” Belethor asked, finally looking up from the cream-lined robes. “I’ve been hearing some strange rumors.  They say Helgen burned.  They say it was a dragon.”

            “Oh—” Knife fought back the words‘I know’, remembering what Hjalmar had said to her. _“If the Legion didn’t have enough reason to execute you before, they will now.”_   She could almost hear the rogue bear’s voice within the shop, echoing like thunder.  “That’s odd.” The Breton nodded, forcing the dim-witted smile to flutter across her face once more. “I was out south, didn’t see a dragon.”

            The man laughed, “Guess it was just some tall-tale.”  She didn’t like his voice, or the way his eyes seemed to crawl over her.  Awkwardly, the teen played with a twig of hair from her bangs, trying to distract herself from his stare. “Well, you have yourself a bargain,” Belethor began rummaging through the drawers on his side of the bar.  Knife could hear the clinking of coins as they collected into the shopkeeper’s palm, and she couldn’t force back a triumphant grin.  He smiled amiably, handing her the gold, “There you go!”  
            “A hundred and twenty?” Knife quirked an eyebrow, her voice a low note of disappointment as her smile dropped. “That’s a bit cheap.”

            “Robe had bloodstains,” It was Belethor who smiled this time, his toothy grin only making his beard seem all the bigger and bushier, “And the venom isn’t high in potency.  Where did you even get this?  It looks watered down.”

            The memories of the burning city made her cringe, but the moment the spiders had dropped from the web-riddled ceiling made her pale in horror, “That is authentic.  As authentic as you get when it comes to venom,” She snapped, jabbing a delicate finger at the vial.  Knife didn’t want to think about how she came to obtain that venom. 

            “I suppose you milked the Frostbite spider it came out of, eh?  Or did you pull that gown of yours up a bit to lure ‘em in?”

            Now he was just teasing her, and that made her neck redden with embarrassment.  She made sure the gown’s neckline hadn’t fallen too low again, crimson spreading to her round cheeks.

            “Well, _no_ , my friend was the one that got it,” The thief thought of Hjalmar, who might have used it for his own devices.  He’d taken the horse, yes, but he had turned his back to her once.  Once had been all she needed to snatch it from his partially open parcel.  “But it’s authentic, I _know_ it is!”

            “Fine,” Belethor retorted, “Since you’re a Breton, I’ll give you an extra fifty.  Not a coin more, though!”

            Once the money had been given to her, Knife thanked him (forcing gratitude for the cheap amount he had given to her), and then departed from the store.  It wasn’t enough to buy a horse, she understood with a sigh as she jingled the coins in her palm.  Walking downhill away from the store, she tried her hardest to tune out the loud noises.  Her bag was empty now; save for a few food items she had decided to keep.  At her left hip, the steel dagger she had taken from the dead torturer was sheathed, and to her right was an iron dagger she had picked up during the melee against the dragon.  They were the only real weight upon her now, and Knife was certain she would prefer it that way.  She didn’t want to feel burdened.  Not anymore.

            The wind caught the gown and she struggled to keep her underclothes from being shown to the public.  It dawned on her that the cash was enough to at least buy something else to wear.  _Is there even a clothing shop here?  OTHER than that stupid pervert’s store?_  She didn’t want to return to Belethor’s shop and feel his eyes on her once more. That was when she remembered the cats that had been outside the gates.

            Dimly aware she had slowed her pace in her contemplation, her bright eyes trailed to a group of travelers that was passing by.  Knife caught a glimpse of the leader, a Nord woman of deep auburn hair, wild and cascading down her shoulders.  Her face was streaked green, eyes pale and hard as ice while she threw about her haughty glares at Whiterun’s denizens.  She was armored in iron and furs, a bow slung over her shoulder and a quiver at her back.

            Trailing after her by less than a stride was a balding man, a coy smirk playing about his lips.  Knife felt like a mere child in his shadow, his dark right eye roaming while its counterpart remained dead and veiled in gray.  She felt his gaze fall upon her, and the Breton jerked her head away, inhaling deeply.  The clinking of his silver armor passed her eventually, and she snuck a glimpse at the others- a Dunmer with amber hair tied back and white markings upon his cheek bones, and a third Nord that took up the rear.

            Knife felt herself uncoil from the bald one’s glare, daring to openly look at the pale Nord’s face.  She caught his gaze, his raven-black hair rolling with a slight wave, his eyes decorated with a slight darkness that Knife assumed was war paint.  His armor was like the bald one’s, but he was smaller, with a slight scruff that nipped at his neck.  She tilted her head, jade eyes following him out of curiosity.  At his back, a greatsword hung, the faintest crimson smear at the hilt suggesting it had recently seen battle.

            His eyes met her briefly, and Knife didn’t shy away like she had with the bald one.  She allowed a flicker of a smile to play about her lips, then glanced away, making her way towards the gates.  The hammering of burning steel upon an anvil was the last thing she heard of Whiterun as she opened the gates, and thought to go outside. _I could pay for a new outfit,_ she thought pulling the coins from her bag. _Or… I could not…_

            Curiosity mixed with greed, and the Breton found herself trailing after the strange group of four, watching them with inquiring jade eyes.  She kept her distance only daring to venture close enough to hear their conversation.

            “Aela, we received word from Severio Pelagia.  Seems like he’s been having a giant problem,” the balding one remarked, a husky laugh to his voice. “Take Farkas and Ria to go look it over.”

            “I’ll do that,” the Nord woman responded with the dip of her head. 

            They did not say much more after that, though Knife didn’t try to listen.  In broad daylight, it was a poor choice to try to pickpocket someone.  Nevertheless, her fingers twitched as she eyed the dark-haired Nord, eyes trailing downward and wondering how much gold he had, and she could feel the excitement boil within her blood. Thieving came all too natural to her.  Sometimes, it was the gold that called to her.  It would call so loudly that it would somehow wind up in her hands, or in her parcel.

            _I shouldn’t,_ she told herself, wincing as she fought back the urge to try.  But the gold she was _sure_ existed was begging for her to try.  _It’s not a good idea…_ Under his armor, she saw a pouch tied to his waist, bouncing softly against his hipbone with each step he took.  For a moment, she swore it jingled, but with all of the background noise, she couldn’t actually tell.  

            But the pouch was full, the indentions from within telling her that it was likely filled with gold. _Or better yet… gems!_  Knife wasn’t too keen on dresses and gowns, but gems were something she enjoyed.  Something about the sparkle they gave off in the sunlight pleased her… as well as how much gold they usually brought into her pockets.

            “Can I help you, girl?” She froze dead in her tracks when he turned to look at her.  “You’ve been following us for quite some time now.” His brow furrowed as his pale eyes glanced her over, and Knife flushed with embarrassment. 

            “I… I um… I…” She stammered, looking about for help.

            “You’ve got her all flustered,” the Dark Elf remarked with amusement, and Knife backed a step from the group. “I think she fancies you, Vilkas.”

            “Shut up, Athis,” the Nord barked in return, a snarl about his lips.  _No!  No, I don’t fancy him.  I want to pick his pockets,_ Knife screamed internally, but said nothing, eyes wide as grapefruit. The cry of the gold had gone silent.

            “You don’t look like you’re from around here…” the balding man was squinting at her with his beady, scrutinizing eyes. 

            _Uh oh._  It was time to make an escape. “I was um…” _The Bannered Mare_ ’s sign dangled a few paces away. “Going to… there.” She pointed at the tavern, and awkwardly shuffled away, feeling the dark-haired one’s piercing eyes on her as she walked away.

            The tavern, apparently called the Bannered Mare, was outfitted with a massive hearth. Tables werescattered about the tavern’s main hall, and Knife quietly slipped into a chair.  Almost at once a Nord woman appeared to ask for her order.  Though she hated wasting coin on it, the Breton asked for a glass of water and a bowl of potato soup. As her food was being prepared, she glanced about the main room.  Most of the tables were devoid of other people—lunchtime had already passed and the hour for drinking had yet to begin. A burly Nord woman drank by herself in the corner, a few empty bottles on the table already.  Near the fire was a warrior donned in thick armor, though his helm lay near his feet. 

            A Nord man with a comely face and waves of golden locks played the flute, the tune lively and intriguing.  As the barkeeper gave her the still steaming soup, she swore the bard winked at her.  Turning her back on him to start eating, Knife blew gently across the soup, trying to cool it quickly.  Stomach growling, she inhaled the scent of the warm soup deeply, stirring it about with her spoon.  Chunks of potato were hidden about, with small tidbits of meat sprinkled within.  It was drizzled with some more exotic type of pepper or plant that Knife didn’t recognize, and strips of cheese were slowly melting within it.  She took a spoonful, blowing across it carefully, then took a small sip.  The broth was still a little shy of scalding, but delicious all the same.

            But that was when she noticed that the flute’s melodic tunes had gone silent.  As she was about to look up, the bard took his seat next to her, flute still in hand. “I haven’t seen you around here before,” He stated in a matter-of-fact voice, “Come to hear Mikael sing, have you?  You wouldn’t be the first maid to do so.”  His arrogance was a turn off, and Knife inched her bowl away from him, putting a protective arm between the stranger and her meal. 

            “No, I haven’t,” Knife shook her head, “Just passing through.” She blew on another spoonful and sipped it gingerly.

            His eyes were mottled hazel, green as the pines and yet brown with dirt and grime.  It reflected him well; his hair was near flawless, but his breath seemed to reek of something Knife wasn’t sure she liked.  He sat facing her, not the table, his locks dancing as he ran his fingers through them. “Just passing through, huh?  What your name, lass?” His eyes crawled over her like Belethor’s had, but his were hungrier than the store keeper’s had been.  _It’s this stupid low-cut gown; it makes me look like a floozy,_ Knife thought sourly. “You're a Breton, aren’t you?  Short and petite.”

            She pushed the bowl away, “Um, okay, look, I’ve already been eyed by the shop keeper a few times today and I don’t really want any trouble.” Maybe if she acted tough, he would leave her be. “I just want to eat my soup and go on my way.”

            Mikael laughed at her, “That’s a fiery temper you have, girl.  Maybe you wanna tame that tongue before you get yourself into trouble.”

            “Maybe you wanna walk away before I show you how fiery that pit is,” Knife jabbed back, pointing her spoon at the hearth that still blazed.  Desperately, she looked for the barkeeper, but the lady had vanished in the back of the store.  The warrior seemed to be more inclined to warm his hands, and she wondered if the woman drinking alone was sober enough to see what was happening.

            Mikael didn’t say anything this time, but as his arm dared to go around her shoulder, the teen lashed out.  Her hands had remembered where the daggers were- the iron and the steel fangs were in hand in a flash, replacing the regular spoon.  “Is this town full of perverts or something?” Knife snapped, the daggers near his face.  The Nord fell back out of his chair, his earthy eyes staring at the tips of the weapons bearing down above him. “Leave me alone!” He sulked off as a sad dog would and she downed her bowl of soup, and left the coins on the bar.  Without a second look, she stormed from the tavern.

            Hands still shaking by the time she made it to the withering tree in the center of the shops, the Breton was fighting back stinging, angered tears. Though her daggers were sheathed, she pawed at them longingly.  Within every blink, she saw the man she had killed in the caves, a Legionnaire in the torture rooms.  She had cut his throat out.  He had been torturing someone, but she had cut his throat out and had spilled his lifeblood over herself.  Shuddering in remembrance, she slumped into a bench, the ravings of a priest catching her attention.

            She chose to listen to him, if only to block out the memories swimming about her mind.  “Terrible and powerful Talos! We, your unworthy servants, give praise! For only through your grace and benevolence may we truly reach enlightenment! And deserve our praise you do, for we are one! Ere you ascended and the Eight became Nine, you walked among us, great Talos, not as god, but as man! But you were once man...”  _This is illegal,_ she realized, staring at him with confused eyes. _The Thalmor banned this worship…_

             But she listened anyways, the priest’s voice hard to blot out.  Husky and ragged, with a yellowing cloak draped about his thin, elderly form, the man appealed to the sky and to the winds.  His speech was enthusiastic, she gave him that at least, but she couldn’t deny it was dramatic. “Talos the Mighty! Talos the Unerring! Talos the Unassailable! To you we give Praise! We are but maggots writhing in the filth of our own corruption! While you have ascended from the dung of mortality, and now walk among the stars! But you were once man! Aye! And as man you said, "Let me show you the power of Talos, Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter. I breathe now in royalty and reshape this land, which is mine. I do this for you, Red Legions, for I love you!” Aye, love! Love!”

            She left him to his melodramatic address, moving away from the withering tree and walking down the steps towards the city gates. _Where will I go?_  It had been gnawing at the back of her mind since she had left Riverwood.  Knife supposed the answer was easy— _anywhere_.  Wherever the road took her, though, from what she could tell, Whiterun wasn’t the ideal town for a thief.  _When night falls, we’ll see…_ She told herself, adjusting the dress for what seemed to be the thousandth time. _Though we’ll see if my patience runs out by nightfall.  This dress is like a tent.  Ugh, how did Gerdur manage to wear this without the neckline falling all the way to her stomach?_  It dawned on her that Gerdur was a fully grown woman, a muscular Nord that had enough upper body strength to rival some of the men she had encountered in her life.  That made Knife feel only more miserable, and the Breton sighed. _First things first… I’m getting a new wardrobe.  Then I’ll figure out where I’m heading next._

            Any plan was better than no plan.


	11. Before the Storm - Part 7

Ailonwe

 

            Despite her late rising from bed, the Dunmer arrived in Whiterun in time for lunch.  She found the carriage driver almost immediately, his rickety cart certainly not a luxurious cab for her to dine in, but it was wheels.  “Passage to Winterhold,” She said to him, courteously tucking her hands together in front of her.  Before she had left Riverwood, she had made sure to ditch her raggedy tunic that the Legionnaires had given her, as well as the armor that she had been forced to wear.  Ailonwe wore a dress of red, white embroidered patterns decorating the edges and the skirt area.  Around her neck was an amulet she had taken from the dank caves, shimmering gold with a pure crystal embedded in its heart.  Its beauty made up for the memory behind it, the Dark Elf thought.

            “That’ll be twenty gold,” the Nord was a man of his forties, with wavy, greasy blonde hair and a dark shadow of scruff about his jaw and mouth.  “I hope you brought a coat.”

            She had, originally, but the Legionnaires had robbed her of it.  Giving him a sweet smile, the Dark Elf vowed to keep herself warm via fire spells, and let the coins clink into his open palm.  The carriage driver rattled them, staring at them with the glint of satisfaction in his eyes.  She climbed into the back of the carriage, and the Nord cracked the reins on the horse.

            The sturdy, bay draft horse snorted, rumbling forward with grass still on his lips. Ailonwe initially found the cart displeasing.  Each step the horse made was a creak in the wood and a shudder in the road.   In silence, the Dunmer ate, delicate hands lightly grasping the bread as she poured a small drabble of honey onto it.  The sweetness was perfect on her tongue, her crimson eyes closing in delight as she leaned back against the bench and ate.  After the brief appetizer, she had a rosey-red apple, and after, a cut of salted beef. 

            She drank the stale tasting water she had gotten from Alvor before her departure, and she sat, looking at the landscape around her.  By the first evening, they had departed Whiterun’s lands, leaving behind the rolling slopes and endless sky.  The trees and frost began to take over, and once, Ailonwe looked up to see a grizzly far through the trees.  The carriage driver said little about himself, introducing himself as Bjorlam later on down the road.  His horse was named Alviss, and he’d owned it since it was nothing but a colt, still wobbling on lanky, infant legs.  Overall, silence took the journey under its wing, and Ailonwe found herself gazing out absent-mindedly at the wilderness of Skyrim.

            At nightfall, Bjorlam informed her that they would soon stop for the evening, as the roads had become too perilous to traverse at night.  His eyes gave away his weariness, and Ailonwe agreed that a fire would be nice to sleep next to.  They pressed onward a ways more, and she kept her eyes peeled on the woods.

            Lumbering across the tundra was a giant, though it kept itself far from the road and near its woolly mammoth livestock.  She stifled a shriek of horror when she spied it, covering her mouth.  Bjorlam said nothing of it, and the gray-skinned giant merely scratched its own back with his makeshift club, which looked more like stones wrapped to a branch with thick, heavy rope.

            Occasionally, her eyes would drift skyward, to the pale blue mixed with a poof of white clouds.  Sometimes, she would halfway expect to see the ebony dragon from Helgen, about to bear down upon them in flight.  She shuddered and wrapped her shoulders about a sheepskin blanket she had taken from Alvor’s, with permission of course.  As the sun’s last rays kissed the darkening skies farewell, the carriage rolled to a stop in a small grove near the cobblestone road, and the Nord hopped off his bench, stretching his legs and unhooking Alviss from his harness.

            Ailonwe began to gather sticks, as was bidden by the Nord, collecting a meager amount to start a fire.  She did not dare to venture into the forests alone—he had warned her what lay in the northern reaches of Whiterun Hold and in the southern forests of the Pale.  The Nord unpacked a few things to throw onto the fire, and the Dunmer started it with her hands, letting the heat flow from her finger tips with ease.

            Senya had taught her basic magic before her departure.  She could summon ice with her touch, burn things at a whim, and even mend cuts with her palms.  But that was child’s play to her mother’s magic.  Once, the girl had seen her sleek and thin-faced mother take on a group of insubordinate peasants.  In a flash, she had ripped a hole in the veil between daedra and mortals, and had brought forth a fiery atronach to ward her opponents away. _I want to do that,_ Ailonwe thought miserably. _I could have a guard at all times that way._   Every rustle in the night was eerie to her, and she snuggled into the depths of the sheepskin that much more.  Bjorlam cooked for her, but the portions were modest.  She was still pleasantly full by the time she finished the meal, which consisted of meat primarily. Bjorlam did not say for her to keep watch, and, when the embers were the only thing keeping the glow from going out, the Nord curled up in his own skins.

            It occurred to her, as she bundled herself up on the ground that the man was a ruffian, posing as an amiable carriage driver.  Cursing herself for being so silly, she let the paranoia keep her up most of the night.  Instead of sleeping, like her aching body told her to, the Dunmer stared at the sky through the canopy of winter-graced pines.  Her thoughts moved in strange, jerking motions, so fast that it hurt her head.  As she massaged her temples, the Dark Elf tried to just focus on one thing at a time.

            Her thoughts went to the knights that had been sworn to protect her.   It occurred to her to write to her parents, detailing her adventures and how they had died trying to save her.  But that only made her crimson eyes water.  Telling the Nord driver had been impossible—her tongue couldn’t shape the words and her voice willed itself into silence.  Confessing what had happened to herself was heart-wrenching each time.  Part of her childish mind liked to pretend Helgen had all been a nightmare, one that would best be forgotten.  But then she looked down at her dress, and she remembered.  She touched her face, where there was a small bruise, and she felt the fires of the black dragon bearing down upon them all.  Ailonwe could still smell the dank caverns beneath the village, and she could hear the cries of the dying in her ears.

            She was crying, the Dunmer realized suddenly, blinking the moisture from her fluttering eyelashes.  As she rubbed the tears away with the back of her thin hand, she thought again, of the knights and did vow to write to her mother about them.  _They had families_ , she contemplated in her sorrow. _Children, even!  Oh, what a horrible thing…_ Her handkerchief had been taken along with the circlet her parents had given her, so she used her hand once more, missing the old silk napkin.

            Despite her sniffles and aching heart, the Dunmer did not rise from the blankets.  Crying only made her tired, and though she briefly wondered if Bjorlam would awaken to kidnap her, Ailonwe eventually gave in to slumber.  She was grateful that she dreamed of nothingness and even more so that she did not awaken throughout the night.  The chill in the grove made her tangle herself into her blankets even more, and she awoke with the first light wrapped in a cocoon of warmth.  Bjorlam was awake already, packing away the belongings he had brought out for camp and was dusting some frost from Alviss’s ebony mane.  Ailonwe usually would have bothered to adorn herself with makeup and fix her hair so that it was as flawless as her skin, but today, she let it fall about her shoulders in rippling waves.

            “There’s an Inn in a few miles.  We’ll stop there for food,” Bjorlam told her once she had come back from changing on the other side of the carriage.  She had replaced the dress with a sleeved tunic and thicker pants, another purchase from Riverwood’s general store.  She kept the furred boots, and wrapped the blanket she had slept in about her shoulders for extra protection.  Her sleeves fell to the elbows only, and the light dusting of snowflakes on the carriage was enough to let her know that they were approaching the unbearable northern lands of Skyrim. _I will have to get used to it,_ thought the Dunmer maid bitterly.

            The cart was as rickety the second day as it was the first, though Ailonwe had expected nothing less.  Bjorlam was more talkative, making comments on the ancient pines and on the snowier climate.  Occasionally, he’d hum a song to himself, or whistle, nonchalant the entire time.  “Winterhold is a cold city,” He mentioned to her after awhile of whistled tunes in the quietness. “Used to be one of the major holds, that is, before Riften’s economy improved and overtook its position.  Most blame the accident for why Winterhold’s no longer a major city in the province.”

            “Accident?” Ailonwe asked politely.  Even though the Nord had not much to say that interested her, she figured asking was the _nic_ e thing to do.

            “It was a few decades back, I think.  Something happened in the College there, something bad.  It caused the earth to shake and the cliffs to fall away.  Everything around the College sank into the ocean.  People died, riots almost were had… nasty business,” Bjorlam’s voice was grave, “Aye, before then, Winterhold was the seat of kings.  Now it’s all been reduced to a ghostly town, full of spite and tension.”

            “I was hoping to attend the College there,” Ailonwe began.

            “I figured as much.  The folk to the south, we don’t mind magic.  But don’t expect friendliness to be coming from the Nords in Winterhold.  They’re still a bitter lot,” the carriage driver warned her.

            “I will keep that in mind,” Ailonwe nodded, hands folded in her lap and her crimson eyes staring out across the road.   They turned to the right at the next fork in the road.  She caught a mere glimpse of a wooden post sign, arrows hanging about its length.  One pointed to the south, the words, “WHITERUN” fading.  To the east, the arrow pointed, “WINDHELM”, and to the west, it said, “MORTHAL”.  “Windhelm?” She said quietly, brow furrowing slightly.

            “We’ll take a northern route to Winterhold,” Bjorlam promised her, “This is the less treacherous of routes these days.  Got a message, saying that the geyser fields to the east had been crawling with spiders especially.  Something about it being their mating season.” Ailonwe made a face, and Bjorlam chuckled.

            The inn came into sight soon enough, and though it was not a small inn, Ailonwe had seen far more impressive buildings in Cyrodiil.  She was starting to notice a trend in the shabbiness of the cold lands, but if her mother had survived it, she saw no reason why she could not.  A swinging door, frosted at the edges, declared the sole building to be the “Nightgate Inn”, which sounded pleasant enough for her.  Bjorlam unhitched Alviss from the cart and let the bay horse munch on some oats.  Ailonwe stepped into the inn almost eagerly, the warmth from the hearth brushing her cheeks and hair tenderly.

            Inside the inn, there were two Nord men—a bald one with a bushel of a beard and a sour-faced one with a leather cap atop his head.  The latter seemed to be halfway through a mug of something, while the bald one was scrubbing down a table with a fading violet rag. “Welcome to the Nightgate Inn, miss!” the bald one said cheerily, and, playing the proper lady, Ailonwe greeted him, making sure she smiled.

            “Hadring, she’s with me,” Bjorlam stepped in after her, his boots carrying in bits of frost and dirt. “On our way to Winterhold.”

            “Bjorlam, you rascal, I haven’t seen you in some while,” the one called Hadring clapped the driver’s hand heartily and shook it with enthusiasm. “Let me know if I can get you some mead and food.  Got lots to go around.”

            “I’ll take some mead, Honningbrew, I think,” Bjorlam nodded to him, “And some food.   Whatever’s on the stove, I’ll take.”

            Ailonwe ordered some tea and grilled chicken breast, and ate in silence at a table as the two Nords conversed. “Bad business, eh?  I thought this place would be crawling with people at this time of the year,” Bjorlam cast his gaze about.  The suspicious Nord in the corner gave him a squinty look, then downed the rest of his drink.

            “Eh, we have an orc every now and then, and Fultheim over there.  We get travelers occasionally.  Sometimes, we get soldiers.  Stormcloaks, mostly.  Usually there’s trouble when they’re here. Someone can’t get their mouth shut and not bring up politics when they see something they don’t like,” Hadring washed a cup as he spoke, not even looking at it. “Last week, it was some woman, wanting to join the Legion.  The Stormcloaks in here wouldn’t have any of that.  I told them to take it outside.  I shouldn’t have told them that.” He sounded incredibly bitter, and Ailonwe didn’t think it was appropriate to ask what had happened to the woman.

            “I’ve been in Whiterun, mostly.  Only place you can avoid things like that,” Bjorlam said grimly, “For now, at least.”

            “It’s going to get worse before it’ll get better,” Hadring lamented.

            “It always does,” Bjorlam agreed with the bartender.

            That was when the door opened, and a man walked in.  He huffed and puffed with each step, his long-sleeved tunic plastered to his thin body.  Although a hat was on his head, ringlets of black hair spewed from underneath, brushing his dark brows. “Whew, it’s getting cold out there!” he proclaimed in his thick Nordic accent. 

            “Well, warm yourself by the fire and have a glass of mead!” Hadring hollered to him, stepping around the bar in an instant with a goblet. “Say, you’re a courier, aren’t you boy?  Been running the whole way?  Going to kill yourself at this rate.”

            The Nord courier took the goblet gratefully, downing a gulp and settling in on the bench by the fire, “I am a messenger, yes.  Based out of Falkreath.  Been traveling for awhile now!  I’m supposed to deliver a message to a Dunmer girl.  Supposed to be on her way to Winterhold.”

            Ailonwe perked up, looking over her shoulder at the courier boy, “Um… Who… Who are you looking for again?”

            “It’s a name I can’t really pronounce…” the courier answered, abashed, “I…. I lon… whee?  Aiee… lon whee?”

            “Ailonwe,” she corrected him, hopping from the chair she was sitting in and made her way over to him, “I’m Ailonwe.  I’m heading to Winterhold.”

            “Then, I believe this belongs to you,” the courier reached from the satchel he had put onto the table, and handed a neatly folded letter. “We got it awhile back, from a messenger in Bruma.  Guess it’s from Cyrodiil.”

            _Mother… Could she know about the dragon?  I should have written to her already!  Oh, I am a bad daughter…_ Thought the Dunmer to herself, looking the seal over on the letter.  It was the black and red moon of Skingrad, and her heart leapt with joy and anticipation. “That’s where my family’s from,” Ailonwe replied, looking up with her carmine eyes, “Thank you for the letter, kind sir.”  He dipped his head, removing his cap and putting it across his heart in response.

            The Dunmer retreated away from the others to read the letter by herself.  She opened the seal with the table knife, not even bothering with it herself.  She plucked the letter from the envelope, letting it unfurl.  Ink stretched about the pages; her mother had written what seemed to be miniature novel in her fancy, cursive handwriting.  Ailonwe blinked, staring at it all, then willed herself to start at the top rather than let her eyes wander the parchment. 

            

_My dearest Ailonwe,_

_I hope this letter reaches you before you have arrived in Winterhold.  It would grieve me all the more if you were to reach your destination, only to have to leave after seeing the College’s beauty.  Your father assures me that things will be all right in the end, but I worry for you all the same.  There is not much time to explain what has happened, only that our wealth has been largely depleted.  I suspect one of your father’s rivals has done this, though I’m afraid to mention in a letter who it might be.  There are investigations in progress, but I’m afraid the family has fallen on hard times.  There isn’t much gold left to support us.  These are trying times, my dear, and I need for you to be brave.  Everyone will have to be brave._

_I have arranged a meeting for you and a friend of mine who lives in Windhelm, to the northeast of Skyrim.  His name is Farys Vamori and he is a kind man.  He will be good to you, I promise.  My dear, sweet Ailonwe, you must go to him.  I have sent a small dowry, so that the two of you may be wed within the month and he will be able to support you while the family goes through this crisis.  I wish for you to be taken care of; nothing less.  And Farys has promised to care for you._ _He even promised me that, when he has saved up enough, he will take you to the College and you can begin your training then.  Until then, I’m afraid you will have to set aside your education until the finances are secure.  I am so very sorry, my sweetling.  This is something I never dreamed possible._

_We are the Kevarathi family, and have withstood the trials of time.  Be brave, little Ailonwe, and pray to the Eight each day that this is over soon.  I have sent in a request to the Emperor to help us sort this matter out.  I love you with all of my heart, my dearest, and I am sorry that this is the only way.  I will write to you frequently, my dear, as much as I can.  Please, send word when you have gotten this letter.  My heart longs to see my little dove again._

_With love,_

_Senya Kevarathi_

_Lady of Skingrad_

 

            She put down the letter, not knowing what else she could do.  It sat, still partially curled on the table, staring up at her with its ink splotched vaguely with tears.  Her tears?  Her mother’s tears?  It didn’t matter to her, the numbness was spreading throughout her limbs, and the Dunmer wished that she could wake up once more and have it all be a horrible dream.  Her face must’ve screamed with horror and shock because she heard Bjorlam ask her if everything was okay.  She didn’t respond, looking down at the letter with her hair about her shoulders, her crimson eyes flooding with tears and her hands over her agape mouth. 

            It didn’t make sense to her.  It would never make sense to her.  Bjorlam asked her again, and she heard him take a step forward.  That was the last straw and suddenly she found herself running to the door, the rest of the world a spinning blur.  She made it outside, the cold winds hitting her in the face and making her obsidian hair dance.  Her tears were warm against the cool air of Skyrim, but it did nothing to help her spirits.  A sob tore from her mouth when she saw the carriage, the one that was supposed to bear her to Winterhold, so that she could become a learned mage.  Face covered by her hands, she sank into the ground, unable to control the cries that shook her body.  


	12. Ill Winds - Part 1

Valerius

Prefect of the Legion

 

            He was _not_ dead.  That was the first thing that Caius Valerius had noticed when he awoke.  Unless Aetherius was a dank dungeon cell, or he had been damned to some portal of Oblivion, Caius Valerius was indeed, _alive_.  The Imperial had found himself bound to the wall in chains, his wrists tightly clad in iron cuffs.  They had not bothered to change his clothing, though his armor was noticeably absent.  His tunic underneath had been crimson, to match the red of the Legion.  His pants were a dark black, but they were torn and covered in dirt.  A haystack had been given to him for bedding, and though at first Valerius had despised it, he found it to be the most comforting bit to the cell he had been given.  The chains only allowed him to roam so far in his newfound, damp home, but at least he could sleep undisturbed in the hay.

            Had it been a week, a year, or a lifetime?  He wasn’t sure; the sun was not visible in the depths of the stone corridor and its branching rooms.  There were others that were in there, and they had tried to count how long they had been within the keep.  They had all eventually lost track and their captors did not do anything to help them.

            Valerius was not the first Imperial there.  The first Imperial had been Agacia, who was a pinch-faced woman with ebony tussled hair, and was in her forties, or so he assumed.  She could not remember her own age, or even her name.  But her memory called out for Agacia, and so that was what she called herself. 

            There was a Nord man named Asgeirr, who had been there for some time, his bear ragged and his hair falling like a mane about his shoulders.  He was covered in bruises, strange cuts, and was thin from malnourishment.  But he was the most lively of them all, the most hopeful.  The female Nord was down the hall, too far for Valerius to see, but he heard Asgeirr whisper her name some nights.  “Signe… Signe…” At first, he had thought the Nord man did it to get her attention.  Slowly, he realized it was to make sure she was not dead.  

            The man to his other side was a Breton, some ex-peddler that had been taken captive while selling goods somewhere near Morthal.  His name was Louvel Fleury, and he was the loudest of them all when he shrieked.  On the other side of Louvel, he smelled a man they had once called “Bjartir”, who was dead as of at least three days. No one had bothered to collect his body, and no one probably would.  In the cell to his left, empty and devoid, there was a pile of bones.  They had been collecting dust there for awhile now, and he suspected they would collect even more dust as the years dragged on by.  

            None of them shared cells, mostly because, he suspected, the vampires feared that they would try to rebel.  Usually, the Thrallmaster was in the dungeon, keeping watch with his fiery eyes.  _Had I not done battle with a dragon before that night, I could have slain them all…_ thought Valerius mournfully, his hands clenched into fists.  He was the newest of the lot, only brought in, he supposed, because Bjartir had died and their captors were a hungry lot.

            He spoke to Asgeirr seldom.  It was the Nord man and the Breton that spoke the most frequently.  Every now and then, he would hear Asgeirr whisper a small chant, a plea to the Divines.  Valerius supposed he ought to have been praying as well, but he could not forgive the Divines for this.  His heart felt no spark of piety and he couldn’t find his voice when he thought to appeal to Akatosh and to the merciful Stendarr.  It was a godless place that he had been thrown into, and it seemed ill fit to pray to the gods that couldn’t hear him.

            The Prefect was sitting next to his haystack, his curled fist propping his forehead up and his a knee drawn upwards.  He sat, pale eyes closed as he thought and reflected.  When he closed his eyes, he was in the Legion again, with his blade in hand and the crest of his helm tickled by the breeze.  He was in Chorrol again, under the great tree, and he smelled the freshness of the forest about him.  Valerius had always been a forest-type of man, listening to the bird song and hearing the deer in the brush.  The only noise that he heard in the darkness were screams, hisses, and the thudding of footsteps echoing in the corridors.

            He looked up when he heard a key turn, and the Thrallmaster stepped into the cell, his ashen boots kicking away a bone that had been in there since Valerius had been chained to the back wall.  “On your feet,” he growled, his wrinkled nose crunching together even more in distaste, eyeing the spot that Valerius had designated as a makeshift bathroom.  When Valerius struggled to find the energy in his bones to move, the pale Nord seized him by the collar and lifted him to his feet, not even caring that he tore the Imperial’s shirt.  The tanned Imperial felt the dagger pressed to his throat before he saw it.  A glance down and he caught that it was golden, made by the elves.  As the Thrallmaster eyed him up and down with his unnatural irises glowing against the darkness, Valerius fought to keep his gaze on his captor’s face, trying to show no fear but quaking ever so slightly.

            “I can smell fear,” Rargal’s grin was toothy, and his free hand seized Valerius by the hair atop his head.  In one motion, the Nord leaned forward, grabbing the Imperial’s throat in his mouth and holding it there as his fangs slowly dug themselves holes.  Valerius sought escape, but his body pressed only against the wall and he battered back a sharp cry of pain.

            Inside, he shook with horror and fear, feeling each tooth as it found its mark, but with the pain, the soldier awoken.  The dagger had lowered when the Thrallmaster had lashed out with his fangs, and that was to the Imperial’s advantage.  With desperation, the Imperial moved, his knee driving itself upward into the Nord’s stomach.  Shrieking and hissing with shock, the vampire reeled in agony, and the Imperial deftly wrapped the chain about the Nord’s neck, pulling as tight as he could muster. His arms ached, wavering with weakness from starvation, his pale eyes were alight with the fire of murder, and the Imperial gritted his teeth to prevent himself from yelling. 

            Rargal Thrallmaster attempted to cry out, but the chains silenced him, and the Imperial felt waves of triumph already flowing in his veins.  As he pulled tighter and tighter, the Nord gurgled, blood spilling from his lips as his eyes bulged with horror.  Valerius heard a scornful, harsh chuckle from somewhere, and it took him a moment to realize he was the one laughing.  They hadn’t fed upon him yet; they had been keeping him in the cells to rot and lose faith.  He might have spat upon the gods for letting him be taken into the darkness, but he still believed in the swiftness the military had taught him.  He believed in himself. 

            Valerius might have continued believing, had the hound not arrived.  With a ghastly call, it charged the cell, and began its brutal onslaught on the Imperial’s leg, grabbing him and shaking with merciless ferocity.  The Prefect kicked out, tried to keep pulling, but the chain had loosened when the gaunt dog had struck.  Rargal slid from the chains, panting heavily and grabbing at where the metal had dug into the side of his neck, rasping out for help.  The hound continued its grabbing, snapping, biting frenzy, and Valerius fell to the ground under its hefty weight, an arm under its lower jaw and keeping it from ripping into his face.

            One of his feet found the hound’s stomach, and he sent it flying away with a swift kick.  By the time he rose to his feet, two more vampires had decided to investigate the noise.  As they slammed him into the wall, Rargal rose to his feet, his neck dripping with black liquid.  One of the vampires, a gray-faced woman, hissed into Valerius’s face, and her counterpart, a Nord man with auburn hair, grabbed him about the neck with a hand.  As the Imperial flailed against the man, his fingers squeezed, pressing on the fresh bite wound. “Thrall,” he sneered, his fangs exposed.

            “No,” Rargal coughed, a hand to his neck, “Leave him with his mind intact, Lokil.”  The dark-haired vampire pushed the other Nord away, “I will take much pleasure in feeding off of him for the years to come. Unchain him.  Do not let him move.  Take him to the Main Hall.”

            The one named Lokil did not release his neck, but kept him against the damp wall while the woman unbound him from the cuffs with the silver, rustic key she had received from Rargal.  When his wrists were freed, Rargal seized him by the collar, dragging him down the hall with the two other vampires shadowing him.  “If you ever make a move like that again, I will turn you into a thrall myself,” Rargal growled into Valerius’s ear, his breath reeking of flesh and blood. “I am the only thing standing between you and an early grave, _Meatsack_ , I suggest you get used to that idea, like all the other good little cattle have.”

            The hallway gave way to an even bigger chamber, with high ceilings, pillars to support them, and arches.  _This is a castle,_ he thought to himself. _It’s not a fortress, it’s a damn castle!_ But were there any other castles in Skyrim that still stood besides the Blue Palace?  Eyes burned from the shadows of the massive hallway, a few stone gargoyles looming over the long, stretched table.  There were no introductions, just the quiet murmuring of voices.  A bone lay on a plate upon the table, and Valerius’s heart rate quickened.  Would he die here, devoured by the unholy hellspawn that surrounded him?  His icy eyes searched the gothic interior but found nothing familiar about it.  It was as though the castle itself had been pulled from a horror story.  Lightning illuminated the skies beyond a giant, stained glass window, but other than that, Valerius saw only endless gray.

            He was trapped in the castle.  He was trapped in the eternal storm.  This was his own little plane of Oblivion.

            The Thrallmaster led him to a table, and though he expected the Nord to demand that he sit at one of the many chairs, he was surprised when he was slammed onto the table, his face smashed against the tablecloth, depicting golden flowers against the endless crimson.

            “Vingalmo,” Rargal’s husky voice sounded even worse than normal. “I have what you requested.”

            The vampire that answered had the same smoldering eyes as all the others, but he stood taller.  He was elven, with fair golden skin, his hair sheer white and tied back.  Despite his pale gray attire, he was the brightest thing in the keep’s hall, practically glowing compared to the rest of the motley cult.  “You look… worse for the wear,” Commented the Altmer in a fair voice, “Go see Faren Sadri and get that looked at.” He wrinkled his nose in disdain. Rargal hissed low under his breath, and the elven vampire inquired, “Has he been Calmed, yet?”

            “No,” Rargal replied, “I didn’t know if you’d want him squealing or not.”

            “The shrieking usually displeases me,” Vingalmo retorted, and Rargal responded by flipping Valerius over, as simple as a child playing with a doll.   The Imperial stared up at his captors, the firm hand on his chest preventing him from rising.  As he lifted his hand, it began to glow with a pale turquoise, the color of the ocean with the light reflecting from its waves. 

            The vampire’s hand was icy cold on his forehead, and the light that radiated from it blinded him.  Eyes shut, he vaguely struggled under the Thrallmaster’s pale fingers, wincing in preparation for the pain.  It never came, to his surprise, the next thing he felt was a relaxation in his shoulders, and the breath that had been held in his lungs expelled itself involuntarily.  He breathed, eyes still tightly closed, and the sensation crawled through his torso, snaking down into his kneecaps before settling into his feet.  Dimly aware that the vampires had moved him onto the table entirely, the Imperial felt himself get tugged away from his worries.  His mind called out for his limbs to move, but his arms did not respond.  The Prefect’s leg might have twitched, but he was unsure.  Valerius allowed his eyes to half-open, staring into the nothingness of the faces in front of him.

            He saw Rargal back away from the table, and Vingalmo bent forward.  Terror should have seized him then, but he couldn’t feel it.  He felt nothing, fear abandoning him as the elf’s thin lips parted and his curved fangs extended out to greet Valerius’s neck.  The Imperial’s back arched, the pain unbelievable… but he couldn’t feel worried about it.  He breathed easily, the burning stretching throughout his chest.  The vampire’s claw-like nails dug into his shoulders and chest as he feasted.  Valerius thought to scream, but he couldn’t find the fear to do so.  As the elf’s hair brushed his cheek and chin, the Imperial stared upwards, towards the lanterns hanging from the arching ceiling and felt himself sink into the table.  Complacency devoured him; apathy was starting to asphyxiate his spirit. 

            A small fleck of blood splashed onto his cheek as Vingalmo propped himself up, having slid onto Valerius’ limp body during the feeding.  His pale face was painted crimson, his teeth bared in a wicked grin.  The Imperial’s icy eyes saw it all, but he didn’t say a word.  He ought to have screamed but silence fell from his parted lips, and the tanned Prefect felt the warm, sticky wetness on his neck.  

            “He tastes good,” Vingalmo said, licking his lips, “He will serve as an excellent replacement for the one that died.”

            “So long as we keep him away from Fura Bloodmouth,” Lokil retorted scornfully. “She’ll bleed ‘em dry.  Loves Imperials like this one.  Especially ones so… Muscular.”

            The spell was beginning to slip and lose its hold on him.  His neck began to tingle and burn, as though someone had held a burning iron to his flesh. A moan tore its way through his cracked lips, and Valerius shuddered suddenly.  They did not hold him down, hardly seeming to mind that he was beginning to awaken from Calming.  An agonizing chill ran down his spine and he twitched, one of his hands slowly raising to the base of his neck.  Warm, crimson greeted his fingertips, and he shivered, pressing his worn palm against the bite mark. Had he the strength to rise, he might have, but the Prefect couldn’t summon the energy in his limbs.  Limp as a corpse, he lay on the table, eyes fluttering shut.  _Breathe… Breathe…_ Valerius forced himself to exhale, then to inhale once more, the rasping enough to catch the Thrallmaster’s attention.

            “I’ll take him back to his cell,” Rargal said, blazing eyes narrowed, “The spell is wearing off.”

            He scarcely felt them lift him from the table.  Rargal partially dragged him the way back into the dungeons, his feet scraping against the black stone floor.  It was a blink and he was back in the cell, his hands bound in their cuffs, and a slab of stone sat in front of him with something that vaguely looked edible atop it.  A small cup of water was given to him and then, the barred door creaked into a shut. 

            When Rargal’s footsteps receded into silence, the Imperial heard a stirring in the other cells. “Lad…” Asgeirr’s voice hoarsely called down the stone corridor, “Lad…”

            Valerius didn’t answer the Nord’s call, taking the brown cup and downing the questionably-colored water within it.  He heaved and rasped, leaning against the back wall of his cell and seeking shelter in its solidity.  It was the only thing in the room that didn’t spin, and he closed his eyes to focus his thoughts. “Wh…What is it?” He rasped to the Nord, a dull ringing in his ears irritating him. 

            “You all right?”

 _No_ , thought Valerius, who felt as though he was in a nightmare that would not end.  _Valerius.  It means “to be strong”._ He had to be strong; he was the only one that couldn’t afford to break down and succumb to the darkness of the keep.  _I am a Prefect of the Legion, it is my duty to save these people…_ “I think so.”  It was a convincing enough lie. “Is it… always that bad?”

            He could heard Asgeirr’s remorse, “Yes.  Yes, lad, it is.”  The Nord wasn’t going to sugarcoat it. “They thought if they starved you, you wouldn’t be strong enough to fight back.”  They had been wrong. “Once they feed on you the first time… they just keep coming in to get you.  It might be a few days.  It might be the next day.  That’s when you’re an official cattle.  They’ll break your mind, lad, they’ll break your spirit… Until you’re nothing but a bloody shell they can feed on.”

            “How do you stop it?” Valerius asked him quietly, hand reaching up to his neck.  Sometime when they had dragged him from the table, they had wrapped it with white cloth, now stained a deep red. “How do you not let them break you?”

            “Repeat your name each day.  Tell yourself things about your life before.  Don’t forget.  It’s easy to forget down here, where the sun never shines, where the wind never blows,” Asgeirr answered solemnly, “It’s easy to become part of the cattle, lad.”

            The Imperial mulled over the Nord’s words, prodding at the food with a finger and deciding he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know what it was.  He took a tender, cautious bite and found it was akin to dry meat and made a face.  _My name is Caius Valerius_ , he thought as he took another bite. _I fight with the sword and shield.  I have been in the Imperial Legion since I was able to enlist.  I am from Chorrol, in Cyrodiil.  I love the forest.  I have a brother and a set of parents.  I was in Helgen when the dragon attacked.  My name is Caius Valerius..._ He repeated the silent mantra until he was finished with his meal, his stomach murmuring its approval at being fed.  Valerius tucked himself into his haystack, letting the wound be exposed to the dank air as he lay on his side.  Sleep was a welcoming thought, and his body trembled from exhaustion.

            “Asgeirr, do the gods hear us down here?”

            “Aye, lad, they always hear.”


	13. Ill Winds - Part 2

Synestra

 

            Bleak Falls Barrow lived up to its name.  The climb to the ancient ruin’s arches was tedious, but upon arriving at the top, the Altmer had indeed found it to be quite bleak and devoid of anything she believed to be pleasant.  A few guards had stood at the doorway to the Nordic crypt, their faces painted with green, black, and reds as though they were feral, primitive creatures.  They had been bandits, and the first had thought to notch an arrow when he had caught a glimpse of her.  She had ended him with a blast of fire to his face, searing off his features and leaving him shrieking on the ground.  That had been enough to startle the others, and when they had knelt over his body, she had made quick work of them with the flat Imperial blade she had taken from Helgen.

            The entrance to the ruins had been a massive chamber, with high, stone ceilings and treasure lay strewn upon the rocks.  Synestra crept with her blade still out, the studs of her armor bumping softly with each step.  Frost dusted some parts of the room, and though the Altmer was initially enchanted by its grand architecture, the sight of a skeever’s corpse laying in its own blood made her feel all the more uneasy.  The bandits had made their nest inside the crypt, and the golden elf was not sure she liked that thought.  A Nord’s corpse was near the skeever’s, and she stepped over it cautiously, clinging to the shadows as though they were life itself.  Synestra’s boots upon the frost patches were the only imprints she left.  Careful to keep her distance from the firelight at the end of the frontal chamber, she cocked her head to listen closer to the conversation whispered in the confines of the hallway.

            “Arvel took the claw… said he’d be back,” a woman was saying, warming her hands by the flames. Synestra saw her leather armor, her face painted with black dyes, and her helmet made of iron.  _More bandits…_ “Got lots of treasure down there, I’d imagine.  Not much up here but pots and vases.”

            “All the good stuff is in the main chamber, I’d bet,” her companion, a bulky Nord man, agreed with her. “That’s where they always keep the goods.”

            Synestra might have listened closer, had her left foot not found the human bone laying near a crumbling pillar.  It rolled from her hiding place, clinking against the stone floor.  “What was that?” the woman lifted her eyes to see the Altmer, a mere silhouette in the dimly-lit crypt. As her companion turned with his hand at his axe’s handle, Synesta lurched forward.  The Imperial sword glinted against the red glow as she cleaved him from his right shoulder to his left hip, using the momentum from the first strike to double back around and catch him in the neck with the front half of the blade.  He fell instantaneously, weapon not even fully drawn from its poorly crafted sheath.  The woman’s bow was at hand at once, and as she notched an arrow to fire at the incoming Altmer. Synestra’s free hand burned in a swirl of fire, consuming the woman before she could let the shaft fly.

            As the woman shrieked her final cries into the depths of the crypt, Synestra stole into the next hallway, a narrow tunnel leading further into the mountain.  _Someone will hear that,_ thought the veteran with dismay.  Though she scolded herself for being so careless, the Altmer continued down the steps, a sinking feeling in her stomach. _The Nords crafted wonderful structures, yes, but this leads… quite a ways…_ No wonder the wizard had been too frightened to go by himself.  Winding through the corridor, the tall High Elf’s shoulders were almost too wide for the carved tunnel.  She squeezed her way into the next area, her blade still in hand.  The place smelled of danger; she did not trust her sword arm to draw out the blade as quickly as it needed to.  

            The hallway widened, and more torches were lit to guide her.  Urns lined the embedded stone shelves, but Synestra didn’t dare to disturb their contents.  It was ill-luck to play with the dead in their own realm, she thought, not to mention ill-mannered.  Vines dug their way into the smooth-stone floor, roots jutting from the walls.  The mountain crypt was ancient beyond belief, and though Synestra was no history fanatic, she pondered its age quietly. Her thoughts made her reckless, and she found herself caught in the ribcage of a headless skeletal torso, its bones so thin and frail that they snapped all too easily.

            Shadows covered the tunnel into the bowels of the earth, and Synestra fought the urge to summon a light to guide her.  Somewhere in the darkness, she heard a cry—animalistic and shrill.  The Altmer paused, her sword at hand, and she listened further, her single good eye glaring into the pitch black before her.  She braved it after a moment of silence, though a distant skittering noise sent the hairs on the back of her neck erect.  With her breath caught in her lungs, she crept forward, senses on high alert and her teeth gnashed.  The deeper the tunnel went, the more she felt the ill-luck clot the air.  This place was teeming with death and pain, and the Altmer felt nauseated by it all.

            A brazier lit the next section of the corridor, and Synestra was thankful for the light.  The sound of breathing made the Altmer pause in the shadows, her single ablaze eye glaring down the passageway with apprehension.  _There’s someone down there…_ their breathing was as loud as a mammoth’s trumpeting in the silence of the ruins.  _A mouth-_ breather, thought the High Elf with a wry smile. She was cautious as she crept down the incline, one of her gloved hands skirting the damp wall, feeling what she hoped was moss between her slender fingers.

            A man with a strong frame was walking into the room, his shoulders tattooed with strange swirling marks.  Head shaved and axe at his hip, she assumed he was one of the ruffians that had taken up residence in the area. _He’s bigger than the others,_ observed the elf quietly, clutching her sword’s hilt.  She presumed he was a Nord, his beard shaggy and unkept.  As his head swung about on his thick, gargantuan neck, he bared his yellowing teeth in a scowl, grumbling to himself.  He waved his torch about, looking at the room as if trying to decipher something. 

            He gave a small shrug of carelessness. Synestra saw him put a foot down, and it was over in an instant.  A thickly forged spike jolted upwards, through him, its tip almost reaching the rocky ceiling. As the spike shot back into the rock, his pale corpse fell to the ground, punctured clear through his torso to the top of his skull.  There was not even a gurgle to signal his passing.  Synestra’s breath flew from her agape maw in a rugged, shocked shudder. _Not only did they carve their way into the middle of the mountain… they riddled it with traps,_ thought the Altmer darkly.  This was a foe that her sword would not be able to vanquish.  

             Her feet tip-toed lightly on the stones, her single eye glaring over each smooth surface.  The culprit was the stone that the man, another bandit, had stepped on.  A swirling mark was engraved on its surface, and Synestra made a mental note to avoid stones of similar engravings.  She carefully padded her way through the hall, and into the next part of the crypt.

            It was a dead end, much to the Altmer’s disbelief, but upon further inspection, the elf saw a stairwell leading down.  She descended, her boots thudding against the wood louder than she would have liked.  Another skittering noise made the elf pause for thought, though she did not hesitate for long.  A skeever emerged from the ebony below her, teeth chattering in some feral tongue.  She ended it with the quick swipe of her blade, trying her hardest to swallow down her growing fears. Its neck was cleaved in a blink, but its face was replaced by another hungering rat.  The elf sent her boot upwards, into its jaw, then let her blade fall onto its skull in a fluid motion. 

            Down the ramping steps, the Altmer found herself in another room, with a table overrun with vines that clutched onto its surface, choking it.  The room extended into the darkness, and suddenly Synestra regretted not picking up the fallen bandit’s torch.  Despite her worries of what she might find in the dark, the elf extended a hand, a light forming within her palm.  She sent the beam outward, to the center of the lengthy room.  It was mostly devoid of items and objects, though a colony of mushrooms had taken up residence in a patch of dirt.

            “H…hello?” The voice startled her and her single eye began to scour the darkness for its source.  She didn’t reply, but crept forward nonetheless, blade pointed in front of her.  It cried out again, “Help… Help me… someone…”

            “Who’s there?” Synestra barked in her husky, deep voice. “Reveal yourself!” It was the first time she had spoken since leaving Dragonsreach.

            “Oh Divines… Oh thank you… I’m… I’m trapped.  I’m stuck!  You have to kill it.  You have to free me!” The voice pleaded with her.

            “Stay calm,” she replied gruffly, rounding the corner of the room to find the a wall of white.  It was strange to her, smelling of ancient musk, and she stumbled a step back. “What in Auriel’s name…” The elf woman swore under her breath.  Her golden eye traced the wall quickly, looking at the pillars that were threaded together by the strange whiteness. _This used to be a passageway.  It looks like it is covered in white yarn…_ Synestra realized with the slightest frown. She glanced about the rest of the room, uncertain.  _There’s no other way… What happened to this place?_  Seeing no other route, the Altmer’s free hand burned with the swirl of flames.  They consumed the white, unnatural yarn that blocked her way, and the High Elf pressed forward, her sword at the ready.

            The floors were stone, partially covered in the same whiteness that blocked the pillars.  She could see that the room was massive and ancient; pillars were broken, protruding from the pale threads and jutting upwards.  Large, bulbous clusters were dangling about the walls, seams and creases on their surfaces perfectly crafted, and yet they made the elf’s skin crawl all the same.  Her golden eye traced the white threads that were all about her, her boots softly sticking to the threads.  With a slight scoff, the woman looked down, and bounced softly on the white, mushy threads that were underfoot.  

            _Webs,_ thought the elf suddenly as she made a face.   Her eyes combed the threads, recalling the monstrous-sized arachnid corpses from the caverns below Helgen. _There’s nothing here…_ she told herself after a moment. _These must be old._  But still, the back of her mind chimed its doubt.   “Hello?” Synestra asked, and that was when she saw the voice’s owner.

            “Cut me down from here!  HELP!” A man at the far end of the white room was stammering, strung up in the threads as though he had been perfectly sewn into the walls.  He was a Dunmer, she noticed, clad in iron and leather armor, just as the others had been.  Synestra neared him, blade in hand as she walked.  He flailed in the webs, his sanguine eyes wide with horror.  She saw his gaze flick upwards and that was when her heart sank.  “Help me! Wait… Wait… WAIT!  WATCH OUT, IT’S--”

            _Behind me,_ realized the veteran spellsword, her blade a mere flash as the Altmer whirled upon the creature.  A myriad of heartless black eyes stared back at her in that split second that she turned, her blade slashing into the monster’s face.  It was a behemoth, making the ones under Helgen look as though they were mere infants.  It spanned a good portion of the room, its legs arching and padding silently against the web-riddled floor as it backed up.  Front legs rearing back to jab and poke at the intruder, the Frostbite Spider let out a slight hiss of disapproval, a nasty cut blinding one of its eyes and widening its maw just a little more.  As it backed away, Synestra pressed forward, fear abandoning her as her hand once again swirled with the burning of fire.  With a slight snarl about her marred lips, the Altmer sent a wave of crimson into the spider’s face and as it backtracked almost to the other end of the room, another stream followed it.  Threads began to sizzle and pop with flames, and the walls began crawling with smoldering red.  

            Her enemy’s beady, pitch black eyes flicked about in their many sockets, mouth pieces clipping together in anxiety.  Irate, the brown arachnid reared, its forelegs lashing out in rage, its fangs exposed with venom dripping.  Synestra allowed another tendril of fire to tickle its bristly fur before lunging in with a strike to its eager maw.  Its left front leg was alight with flames and the noise it made was uncanny to her pointed ears. Her blow hit to the left of its face, but her wrist flicked the blade upward at an angle and her arm guided it through its good foreleg.  It lashed with a bite, one of its ebony fangs clipping her shoulder plate as the Altmer spun on a pivoted foot away from her now seven-legged enemy.  

            It secreted a black ooze from its gaping wound, attention drawn to the shrieking Dunmer still strung up in its ivory fortress.  The smell of musk, stilled air, and death clotted Synestra’s nose, but she charged all the same.  Its legs skittered against the stone, towards its victim, and he screeched, “Get it away, get it away! KILL IT!”  With a jab to its retreating abdomen, the Imperial blade embedded itself almost to the plain pommel.  With a ghastly shriek, it reared, its legs twitching in searing agony as Synestra cleaved off a portion of its rear end, bereft of mercy.

            The spider turned with surprising speed, its maddened eyes upon her.  Flames were still biting at its left foreleg, nipping and burning its limb to pieces.  Desperation caused it to lunge and Synestra’s hand exploded with pale blue in response.  The force barrier kept its poisonous fangs from her while she backed away, her scarred lip jeering with wrath.  

            When the barrier faded, it crawled towards her with astonishing speed, and Synestra blasted it straight in the face with a torrent of fire, her single eye widening with concentration. Its mouth caught the flames first, and the burning kiss wrapped its way up to its eyes.  Synestra’s blade came second, merciless as it came down upon the spider’s head.

            It perished with a squirm, and shuddered, its eyes staring into the nothingness of death.  The Altmer turned to the Dark Elf with silence, the blade covered in thick, heaping ooze.  Without another word, she slashed into the strings that held him upright, her blazing eye staring at the bandit elf.  He fell to the ground with a thud a few moments later, and as he collected himself from the sticky ground, Synestra began to send blasts of fire at the clusters on the wall.

            “Wh… what are you… doing?” the Dark Elf asked her, hastily brushing himself with both hands.

            “Those are egg sacs,” Synestra said, devoid of emotion, “I don’t care who comes back to this place.  I will rid it of this… pest problem…” When the sacs were alight with crimson fire, the Altmer turned and walked away from the room.  The cuts in the web had freed the Dark Elf, but it had also opened a passageway further into the ruins.  

            “So what are you bandits doing in here?” Synestra asked, not bothering to tell him that she had cut a majority of them down. _The less he knows, the better…_ And her suspicions swam when she looked at him through her sole eye.  

            “There’s some stuff in here.  Old relics.  Stuff people would pay for!” The Dunmer replied, “Had some guards posted.  How did you get past them?”

            “I’m used to this sort of thing,” came the cryptic response, and the Dunmer seemed to shrug his shoulders, though she heard a mutter of a curse under his breath. “Well… uh… you can go now, thanks for killing that thing…”

            “I need something that’s here,” Synestra retorted, “I’m going to the main chamber.  The rest is yours…” _Scavenger_ , thought the Altmer with distaste.

            “No.”  She hesitated to take another step, watching him with confusion.  The Dunmer gritted his teeth. “No.” He repeated the word again… and again.  A steel knife appeared in his hand, “The treasure is mine!  The secrets of the claw are mine!”  Her blade had yet to have been cleaned or sheathed.  The knife was a toothpick compared to the flat blade that she carried.  A flick of the wrist disarmed him, and the Dunmer fled from her with a cry.  She watched him go, her single eye burning with disappointment and annoyance.  A glance was tossed over her shoulder at the white room of webs and the now corpse of a spider, and the Altmer trudged onward, the cries of the bandit filling the ancient corridors.

            Smearing the spider’s liquids onto the walls to clean off her blade, she stopped only to glance over the many shelves that lined the sides of the corridors.  Each shelf had a black casket, engraved with unfamiliar markings.  Uneasiness stirred in her stomach, and the Altmer woman quickened her pace.  She heard the first footstep then, her knuckles tightening around the hilt of the sword.  “AHHHH!” screamed the Dunmer’s voice somewhere ahead and a sickening thud echoed afterward.  Synestra’s pace was now a jog, eye searching the walls.  Murmurs were softly being whispered among the coffins and caskets, and the foulest aroma of decay began to tingle at her nose.  _Something is here.  Something evil…_ her skin didn’t crawl, but the hairs stood upright over her pale yellow skin and the Altmer was afraid.

            She was in a full sprint through the winding, narrow corridors when the sounds of footsteps doubled.  Synestra ran, almost too fast to stop when she found the Dunmer’s body.  Impaled on a grate of spikes against the wall, the Dunmer was a gory mess that she would have rather forgotten.  _I saved you…_ She thought dismally, looking at the cushioned, needle-ridden corpse then glancing to the stones nearby.  “A trigger stone,” the High Elf said aloud, but it took a little longer for her eyes to see it. _Yes there…_ Its swirl marker was faintly stained with the white of spider webs.  The footsteps were still a low rumble, and Synestra began to step carefully over the trigger stone.  

            The glint of gold caught her eye and she stopped to pick it up.  It was a claw, sculpted perfectly, and ancient.  She held it in her hand, the words of the Dark Elf ringing in her ears. _The secrets of the claw…_ By now, the footsteps were a drumming in the deep, and she reluctantly concluded on bringing the claw, keeping it in hand as she hopped over the trigger stone, and continued on her way.

            Each corridor looked the same, and she feared activating one of the ancient traps, so she moved as carefully and swiftly as she could.  Every so often, she’d look over her shoulder, fearing the darkness that followed her would be standing there in wait.  But it never came, and the Altmer was thankful.  She stole her way down more passageways than she could count, one hand on the claw, the other, on the blade.  The narrow halls opened to a small cascade after what seemed like an eternity of blind navigation.  She found nothing here but a small naturally-carved bridge and a blue pool at the bottom of a long drop.  The skull of a three-eyed troll stared at her as she pressed onward, the caverns joining back with the ruins, and the footsteps fading in and out of hearing.

            It seemed like a lifetime had passed when she reached the giant, wooden door.  It was a stone corridor that greeted her, arches embedded into the rock depicting carved faces.  She shivered, seeing their eyes follow her as she walked down the hallway, trying to stay as silent as she could muster.  The footsteps might have receded, but she didn’t know what else lurked the ancient hallways. Standing at least ten feet tall, the dark wood door stood with nothing but three rings and a slot in its center.  The decorations surrounding it made the doorway seem all too plain and simplistic.  She eyed the rings, resting her hand on the topmost one.  With a swipe, she cleaned its surface, frowning at it. “Bear.”  She told herself, head tilted to the side.  The ring below it was a dragon, and the one below that was a moth or butterfly (she couldn’t really tell the difference).  But, to her dismay, there was no handle to open it.  She gave it a shove and nothing gave way.  A kick resulted in a low thud of her boot hitting wood.  Though she thought to burn it away, she stayed her hand, thinking nothing good could come from it.

            Synestra realized she could move the rings if she tugged enough, and though the pictures differed, the door did not creak open to reveal its secrets.  It stood with as much stubbornness as the Altmer had, and that made her all the more frustrated.  Silence met her, and the High Elf stared at the door with despair starting to creep in.  _No.  I have gotten this far…_ Forehead meeting the slot into the door, a strange, three-pronged indention, the High Elf muttered a low string of curses. _What sort of door is this?  No handle… Nothing…_

That was when the claw of gold caught her attention, strung on her leather belt like a bizarre ornament on a tree. _Secrets of the claw…_ Perhaps it rearranged to a key?  She removed it from her belt, then eyed it, turning it over in her hand.  Along the inside, she was surprised to find all-too familiar symbols.  “Bear,” she said allowed, eyes widening, then added, “Moth….” And then, “Owl.”  

            With a tug, she put the rings in order—Bear, Moth, Owl—and let the claw slide into the indention.  With a turn and a small thrust, the key slid into its opening, and she pocketed it just moments before the door slid away, revealing another passageway.  “Auriel above…” breathed the Altmer, stepping forth into a surprisingly cold air.  The corridor opened into a cavern, with natural stone pillars and accompanied with the screeching of black-furred bats.

            She felt the wind against her face, her boots scraping against natural, undisturbed stone.  Light streamed from above, through small cracks in the ceiling ahead.  Trees and moss had found enough nutrients to grow there, and the small chuckling of water was welcome music in the silence.  The Altmer crept forward, staring upright at the rays of light that filtered down onto her face, feeling the warmth brush her cheeks tenderly.  _It feels nice_ , she commented to herself.   Following the path that had been ground into the vegetation and stone, the High Elf found herself staring a large wall in the rock face, its carvings strange and foreign to her.

            Eyes scanning the large, dragon-like mark in its side, the veteran approached the wall, touching the obscure markings and tracing them with a finger.  The symbols meant nothing to her, and she turned away from them after a moment of studying them closely.  _A strange, lost dialect, no doubt,_ thought the Altmer to herself as she found herself eyeing a coffin of engraved, dark gray stone.  It took effort to remove the lid, and with a mighty push, the Altmer found herself staring at the form of a partially-decayed corpse.  Nose wrinkled, the gold-skinned elf let her eye wander its skeletal form, specifically locking onto the smoothed rock that it so desperately clutched.  Curiosity caused her to reach out with a gloved hand, removing the smoothed rock with as much delicacy as she could.

            It was a black slate, made of the same stone as the wall behind her.  Markings were scratched upon its relatively smooth surface, and the emblem of a dragon’s face made her wonder if this was the prize she had been sent to find. _It must be,_ Synestra decided after a moment of thought.  Farengar could at least be pleased with her finding; she did not wish to delve back into the darkness of the Nordic ruins.  _I will give this to him, and if not, we will work something else out,_ she decided, stepping away from the coffin and looking to the walls for the next section of the pathway.

            That was when she heard the slight creaking of bones.

            Synestra turned, hand upon her sword’s hilt as she looked back.  The corpse within the coffin had arisen, its eye sockets flooded with an unnatural pale blue light. _Evil,_ she reminded herself, and she wondered how many coffins like this one she had trekked by after her encounter with the spider.  _Too many._ She thought of the footsteps, then shuddered, withdrawing the Imperial sword. _So that’s what it was._ The dead were cursed in this place, and the living corpse’s footsteps were all the same as it crawled from its black slate tomb, a broadsword in hand.  Its mouth opened to speak, but no words came out—nothing but a gurgle of inhuman noises.

            “ _Alok_!” Finally, something was sputtered from its opened maw, its unnatural pale irises brimming with malice. “ _Krif… Krif!  Krii!_ ” All other gurgles and chokes were lost in a devilish snarl as he charged forward.  Synestra answered his charge with one of her own, bending down to drop the tablet against the ground as she ran forward, sword brandished and glinting in the sunlight. 

            The broadsword thudded into the ground next to her, and the High Elf countered with a blast of fire magic to its torso.  Its rags caught on fire, but it battled on, undaunted.  The sword was a flurry of jagged, choppy motions.  Death had made the corpse reckless, moving with haphazard abandon.  She was pressed into the defensive almost immediately, back-stepping from the creature as it came at her in rage.  Synestra found her opening when the sword missed her by an inch, cutting only into the stone behind her.  As it began to lift the massive blade once more, she surged forward, blade singing through the air as it impaled the walking corpse through the ribcage.  As it gasped and shuddered, she twisted the blade within its crinkled, decaying skin, and withdrew it promptly, letting the ghastly creature fall to her feet. 

            Synestra watched the blue flicker in its skull, and when the body lay still, she bent down to grab the stone tablet from its resting place on the ground.  Not even looking back at the corpse, she tucked her prize beneath her arm, her eyes set forward.  _And now… to find a path out of here…_ That was when the dagger flew from the decaying hand, striking her in the back.  With a gasp, the Altmer felt the hilt of the blade, a small one used for slipping between plates of armor, and felt the burn of the wound.  _It’s deep…_ She thought, looking back at the fading blue eyes of the corpse, its hand extended in one final act of malevolence.  Teeth gnashed, she let her fingers and palm explode with a enraged swirl of fire, consuming the corpse and flooding the cavern with the smell of burning flesh.  Synestra made it to the rock wall of markings before her knees gave way, one hand around the tablet and the other on the knife still within her.  It took a bit of coaxing before she allowed herself to remove the blade.  The wound bled even more profusely then, and the elf forced one hand to stop the waterfall of crimson while the other sparked with the white of healing magic.  _It’ll leave a scar nonetheless.  But this’ll delay it from getting to a bad enough point…_ She’d have to see a medic either way, her side throbbing with agony.

            It took a half hour for her to finish healing herself.  The process was wearying, and she found herself slumping against the rock wall, fighting to stay awake and still clasping the wounded area.  She helped it scab over, but the cut had been made deep enough that she feared it would fester and grow painful with pus.  _I must quit this place,_ she thought, recalling the footsteps in the darkness and the glow of blue in the eyes of the decaying skull. _This place is cursed._

            With her sword sheathed, the Dragonstone tablet under one arm, and her free hand clasping her wound, the Altmer picked her way through the rocks and found the pathway once more, her single eye scouring the shadows.  She trudged, slow and wincing with every other step.  A string of curses to Whiterun’s court wizard zipped through her mind, but she was silent with determination, her concentration and attention spent on walking.   

            The corridor was a small hallway embedded into stone with hardly any breathing room.  Synestra moved slowly, the asphyxiating atmosphere nagging at her chest and at her lungs.  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed while she was in the hall; it occurred to her just after, she wasn’t even sure how long she had been within the Nordic ruins.  A tendril of light caressed her face at the turn of another hall, and the mouth to the outside world awaited her.  It was a long march through the hallway, but the light that greeted her at its end was glorious indeed.   


	14. Ill Winds - Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains some sexual content.

_Hjalmar Bearblood_

_Bandit King_

 

            The stolen stallion thundered through the night despite the snow that trickled down from the heavens.  Hjalmar fought to keep his fur hood up with a hand, the other burly fist clasping the reins to the ebony stallion he had lifted from a guard near Riverwood.  He had been going since he had taken the horse, stopping only to sleep a few hours.  The hostile lands of Skyrim were a familiar enemy to him—one he didn’t necessarily miss.  While the merciless wind through his mane of hair made him smile barbarically, the dangers that lurked the shadows made him paranoid.  Safety in numbers was how one survived the winter winds of the northern lands.

            Traitor’s Post was his hideout of preference. The Blood Raiders had their territory in the Eastmarch, north of where the hot springs boiled and east, where the frigid sea lay.  He had crossed the Darkwater and had chosen to follow along its eastern bank to where it met the White River. Windhelm and its Palace of Kings was a stony sentinel in the distance by now, behind him and keeping vigil.  He had not set foot into the ancient city since his days of thieving had begun.  Ulfric would have his head to repay the bounty he had racked up in the Eastmarch.

            In another life, perhaps, he would have befriended Ulfric Stormcloak. Once, Hjalmar recalled, his mother- a plump and useless thing- had told him the late Bear of the Eastmarch was a distant cousin.  Too distant to truly count, Hjalmar supposed, but that made him distant relations to the self-proclaimed King of Skyrim.  _Not that he would care, the selfish bastard that he is,_ Hjalmar chortled as Traitor’s Post came into view.

            The shaggy-haired stallion reared at the glint of an arrow in the window.  Hjalmar lowered his hood, raising his great hands in a show of peace, “Hold, Blood Raiders.  It is Hjalmar Bearblood that approaches!” His voice was thunder in the bleak north of the Eastmarch, echoing in the night.  Swinging his leg over the back of the horse, Hjalmar met the ground in a semi-crouch, his dark brown eyes scanning the shack as the first of his men greeted him, bow still in hand.

            “Sveinn,” Hjalmar greeted the Nord boy, still ragged and scrawny in his adolescence, “I have returned.”

            “No, damn it, by Ysmir, we all saw you die!” the black-haired boy shouted, “I saw an arrow hit you right between the eyes, I did!”  He strung his longbow with another iron arrow, pointing it at the bear of a man with shaking hands.

            “Do I look like a Draugr to you, boy?” Hjalmar growled, storming forward.  Sveinn shrieked, falling back and releasing the arrow high into the air.  With a deft hand, the Bandit King struck the teen across the face, “Get ahold of yourself, afore you really kill someone with that toothpick-slinger!” snarled Hjalmar, and with the same hand he had struck the boy, he hoisted him up.

            “It really is you…” Sveinn gasped, staring up at the Nord with wide, childish eyes. “Lord Hjalmar, I thought… We all did… You died!” He was sputtering again and Hjalmar lifted a hand to strike him.  Sveinn ducked, wincing even though the blow never came, adding rapidly, “Fraener, Koli, and Liuflr went on a raiding party.  They left me here, with some of the others.”

            Hjalmar clapped Sveinn on the shoulder and began walking towards the shack.  The boy followed him inside, and shut the door, keeping out the biting winds. “Who all died in the attack near the border?” Hjalmar asked, taking off the fur cloak he had kept over the leather armor.  “I scarcely remember a thing.”

            “Ari Swift-Eyes took a sword to the throat halfway through.  Nessa bled out on the way back here.  She wouldn’t let anyone touch her wound.  Said the bastard who gutted her used Frostbite venom.  Vali, Halldor, and Finnir are all gone-- I don’t know what happened.  I didn’t see anythin’, Lord Hjalmar.   The only ones here are Eitri, Dagir, and Kelda.”

            Hjalmar’s jaw clenched out of silent, fuming rage.  He nodded to Sveinn, and clapped him on his shoulder once more, gentler this time, then wordlessly stepped into what had once been a living room.  The fire stirred slightly at his approach, a few embers burning at his feet.  The Bandit King swept his gaze across the darkened room, where the huddled form of Kelda could be found on a bench, a wool blanket wrapped around her.

            Eitri’s eyes opened and he rose, semi-awake as he reached for his axe.  He was a good man, Hjalmar recalled, one of their newer ones.  Eitri War-Hawk, he called himself.  Face painted red like the others, he was a barbaric, primitive looking man with long sandy hair and a scar on his left cheek.  Before he could yell out a warning to the others, Hjalmar cut him off, “I have returned, Eitri War-Hawk.  Put down your weapon.” The Bandit King’s head was lifted in confidence, though his hand strayed to the warhammer on his back out of caution.

            “Hjalmar?” Dagir asked sleepily as he awoke, rubbing at his eyes with a wrist. “Shor’s bones… Is that you?” By now, Kelda, the sole woman in the company now that Nessa had passed on, was stirring from her slumber, peering at the Bandit King with curious hazel eyes.

            “Aye, Dagir Blade-Maker, it is me,” Hjalmar said firmly, voice thick with confidence.  “Awaken!  There is much to discuss among the Blood Raiders.”

            “I would say there is,” Eitri agreed, shooting Dagir a pointed look.  “You were dead the last time we saw you.  How is it that you live, Hjalmar Bearblood?”

            “I am not dead.  I never died,” Hjalmar retorted gruffly, “The Imperial dogs could not fell the Bandit King.  I am alive, an

d they are disgraced even further.” He haughtily laughed, his thunderous voice ringing out for a few seconds before he realized that the others were merely staring at him.  As his deep laughs died away, Hjalmar continued, “We will wait for Liulfr, Fraener, and Koli to return.  The winds have shifted and the Blood Raiders must move with them.”

            “You are mistaken, Hjalmar Bearblood,” Eitri War-Hawk shook his head, “We  are not Blood Raiders any longer.  Our lord is Fraener the Scourge, and we are the Warmongers.”

            Hjalmar stared at the blonde Nord for a few moments, his warhammer calling out to him for battle.  He stayed his hand, almond eyes never leaving Eitri War-Hawk for a moment.  The Bandit King’s voice dropped into lethal quiet, “Is that so?” He questioned them, moving his gaze from Eitri to the others.  Kelda continued to sit, her face still painted with the red of the Blood Raiders—or now, he supposed, the red of the _Warmongers_.

            “Aye,” a voice rumbled from behind the Bandit King, so familiar yet bitter.  Hjalmar turned to see the Nord standing in the doorway, young, moving with arrogance and misplaced confidence.  His wavy, light brown hair was tied back into a ponytail, his face rimmed with dirt and grit from travels.  Since Hjalmar had last seen him, his stubble had manifested into a beard that was far too well trimmed for a bandit.  The Bandit King bristled as he spat the Nord’s name out.

            “Fraener.”

            “Lord Fraener.  It’s been that way since you died, Bearblood,” Fraener retorted, jingling with money with each step he took.  He tossed a bag of coin to Kelda, who caught it with a mischievous grin on her face.  The Scourge declared loudly with a sweeping motion of his arm to the other bandits, “Another village ransacked and pillaged and we have all the gold we could possibly need for the winter.”

            “This is _my_ campsite,” Hjalmar challenged, withdrawing the warhammer from its leather sheath upon his back, “Fraener, I challenge you in the eyes of the Old Gods.  Throw away your false title and take your place back under me.”  Even though he snarled the words, Hjalmar knew what course of path this was.  Fraener tossed his head back and howled with laughter.

            “The Old Gods?  Old, dead gods for an old, dead king.”

            _You will regret those words,_ Hjalmar thought with a glint in his chocolate eyes, pale lip twitching with the hint of a smile.

            Eitri War-Hawk fetched a greatsword, handing it to the Scourge as his shrill laughs faded into silence.  Fraener inspected the steel blade with a set of approving eyes, nodding to Eitri before he turned his gaze back to Hjalmar. His blue eyes glittered as he said, “We will settle this outside.”

            Hjalmar grunted an agreement and they stepped outside, the rest of the bandits following with their curious, prying eyes.  Fraener, still clad in his heavy, clanking steel armor, placed his horned helm atop his head, greatsword held in both worn hands. Hjalmar said nothing but held his warhammer at the ready, remembering the corpse he had taken the hammer from.  Hopefully, the weapon would serve him better than it had its previous owner.  Eyes narrowed out of seething rage, the Bandit King waited for the Scourge to turn and face him.

            “I don’t know how you survived the attack on the border, but I’ll finish what the damn war started,” Fraener sneered as he stepped forward.

            “I’m sure you were heartbroken when you thought I had died, Fraener,” Hjalmar shot back with a bearish growl.

            Fraener stepped in, the greatsword swinging diagonally from shoulder to hip.  Hjalmar let the lengthy handle of the warhammer take the blow, swinging back for a counter strike.  The hammer thudded into the ground, cracking nothing but stone and permafrost.  Fraener came in with a vertical strike at Hjalmar’s back, but the Nord evaded, the warhammer swung upwards to collide into the usurper’s chest.  Fraener’s mouth opened as a _whoosh_ of air was knocked from his lungs.  He staggered and coughed, backing up to give Hjalmar a wide berth.

            Hjalmar wouldn’t allow it, stepping forward with his merciless warhammer, bringing it down.  Fraener leapt back a step, the warhammer thudding into the snow once more.  The Bandit King hoisted it up with all his might, teeth gnashed and bared as though he were an animal, burgundy mane flowing wildly in the wind.  The Scourge swiped at the Bandit King with his greatsword, the tip cutting Hjalmar’s upper bicep but doing nothing to deter the bearlike man from his wrath.  The warhammer struck Fraener in the side of the helmet, denting it and crushing one of the horns that adorned the sides.  Fraener staggered away, greatsword falling from his hands.

            A murmur rose from the crowd of bandits, and Hjalmar was dimly aware of Sveinn staring with horrified, youthful eyes. The Bandit King pursued Fraener, raising the warhammer with savage magnificence over the Scourge.  The end came down an inch shy of the usurper’s head, and the man lashed out with a dagger, sliding it into the crack between Hjalmar’s breastplate and belt.  The Bandit King gasped, the dagger leaving as swift as it entered.   Fraener pushed him off, the steel dagger still in his hand as he rose above the Bandit King.

            Hjalmar felt blood warming his stomach, and instinctively kept a hand near the wound, his dark eyes searching for his hammer.  Fraener strolled leisurely to where his greatsword had fallen, grabbing it and turning back to face the bearlike Nord.  As the Scourge charged, Hjalmar pushed himself to his feet with a hand, running at the usurper.  The blade narrowly missed the Bandit King as he grabbed its hilt, fighting muscle against muscle with his foe.  Fraener’s raggedy snarls filled his ears as they struggled, grappling for the sword and slamming into each other.  Hjalmar felt his enemy’s breath upon his bare face, tattooed and painted with crimson steaks. His back arched from work, his stomach still dripping with blood.  The Scourge struggled against his foe, knees bent as they stumbled and staggered.  His hands clung to the greatsword out of desperation, fear in his eyes.

            The Bandit King surged forward from the knees, pressing Fraener to the ground.  In response, the usurper sent a foot into Hjalmar’s stomach as they toppled to the snow. The blade came free in Hjalmar’s hands, and he rose above Fraener.  The Scourge sat up, fearfully holding his hands above his face and kicking out away from the Bandit King.  With a snarl, Hjalmar lifted the blade and stabbed down, straight into the Scourge’s unprotected throat.

            With a gurgle, Fraener stilled, eyes still heavenward and fearful as the coldness of death took him.  Blade wet with blood, the Bandit King looked to the so-called Warmongers, his murderous, narrowed eyes scanning their faces for responses.  He left the blade where it was, cutting a deep hole into the Scourge’s neck, and stood before the bandit horde, his chin lifted.

            “Bandit King,” Eitri began, lowering his head out of respect.

            “Aye, Hjalmar Bearblood is our lord,” Liuflr joined in, his wild black hair blown back in the biting wind.

            One by one, they pledged their fealty to him, still bleeding, covered in dirt, and sweating.  When the last one had said their piece, the Bandit King nodded, his eyes studying them all in silence. A moment passed and he broke the silence with, “Kelda, get me a potion of healing.  Sveinn, fetch my new sword and clean it.  Eitri, Dagir, take the corpse away and string it up so nosy travelers will know to steer clear.  When this is all done, get some rest.  We will talk later.  There is much to discuss.”

            Hjalmar Bearblood left them to their tasks without another word, hobbling to Traitor’s Post, eyes dark with worry.  Fraener had been a good soldier once, a loyal subordinate, but the opportunity for power had arisen.  _He grasped it without a second thought,_ Hjalmar thought to himself grimly. _But what else is to be expected?  That is the order of man and beast._   He would not blame Fraener for his ambition, but he would blame him for his stupidity.  _He was outmatched._   The wound twinged in reminder and Hjalmar considered, _He was better than I had anticipated._   But there was one language in Skyrim, and that was the language of steel clanging and blood spilling.

            He sat himself in a chair near the hearth, reduced to naught but barely breathing embers.  Kelda came in quietly, her honey-sweet hair tied in a rough, loose ponytail.  In her hand there was a brown, leather-bound flask, and though he took notice of it, the Bandit King’s eyes climbed up her torso.  She bade him to strip off his worn, tattered shirt, and he obeyed without a word, looking her over as she stooped down to brush the poultice on his wound.

            “Damn Nessa,” He rasped, feeling the poultice’s burn upon his skin. “Dying like that, when we had gotten used to her healing arts.”

            “Looks like you’ll just have to make do with me,” Kelda replied, golden-flecked eyes flicking upward to meet his.  She was a woman, ripe with curves and the proper fair skin of a Nord woman.  Her hair smelled of flowers, which seemed too soft for a bandit, but the steel glint in her eye reminded him.  She was dangerous with a bow, and even more so with a proper dagger.  The day he had met her, she had almost taken out Finnir with the flick of her wrist and a butter knife. 

            “Aye,” Hjalmar considered aloud, “I suppose I’ll have to.”

            She averted his gaze, focusing on his wound and taking care to not aggravate the injury any further.  After dabbing the serum a few more times, the Nord woman gave out a sigh, shifting her weight and frowning at the gash.  “We will need to clean it,” Kelda informed him, “And bandage it.  Otherwise, it might get infected.”

            The curvy woman vanished for a bit, but returned with bandages almost as quickly as she had departed.  A vial of liquid was in her other hand, a drought that would ease the pain and the Bandit King took it without protest.  The burning ache in his side was as irritating as it was painful to him.

            Her hands were like magic, light and delicate as she dabbled ointment upon the wound.  Hjalmar had never truly bothered to learn much about herbs, but luckily Kelda had.  He would peek at her work before looking away, staring into the nothingness and trying his hardest not to let the agony reflect on his features.  When that was done, she began to bandage the wound. As she wrapped the cloth about his torso, he bit back a few grunts and gasps of pain.  His nails dug into the chair, his teeth gnashing so hard together that they hurt.  It was awhile before the drought began to settle in, and he felt the burning sensation dull into a mere whisper.

            She finished before too long, but Hjalmar didn’t give her a chance to back away. He inhaled deeply, leaning forward to smell the sweetness of her nape and hair. “That didn’t take long,” she mused, her voice tingling with melodic laughter.  He gave her a wry smile, and scooped her into a bearlike hug with one sinewy arm as he rose from the chair, burying his face in her hair.

            “I missed you.”

            “You missed _women_.”

            “You’re not like other women.”

            “I’m sure you told Nessa the same. And Siv before her.”

            Hjalmar frowned at her, his hands snaking to her elbows, holding her lightly. True, he had no doubt said the same to Nessa, Siv, and other women that had joined his raiding party.  But they had all been the same to him, just with different faces.  They had been meek and shy, or all too willing to give themselves to his touch when he began to make his advances.  Kelda was different than them all; she resisted his arms, his caresses, and the pleasure he offered to give to her.  She would deflect his advances with wit and humor, and though it had puzzled him at first, the Bandit King had begun to treat it as though it were a fun game.

            Only, Hjalmar didn’t like losing.

            “Come now, surely you’re worn from your fight.  You haven’t been cleaned yet,” Kelda chided him gently, hands on her hips.

            “Don’t need to be.  I’ll just get dirty later,” He offered her a toothy, savage smile, and she gave him the roll of her eyes in response. “I’ve had you before.  I don’t know why you’re insistent on hiding from me.”

            “ _Once_ ,” Kelda articulated to him, holding up a finger, “Once.”

            “And I don’t recall you complaining,” Hjalmar remarked, reaching up and toying with a strand of her hair that didn’t quite make it into her ponytail.  She didn’t swat his hand away, and Hjalmar considered it to be a victory. 

            “You’re like a child, wanting something and weeping when you cannot have it,” Kelda taunted, slowly drawing back a step.

            “I could force you,” Hjalmar pointed out aloud, his voice steeling itself with ever-so-slight seriousness.

            “Aye, you _could_ , but I don’t think you’d like it,” Kelda replied, voice calm as she looked upon his face, one of her hands daring to brush a twig of his auburn hair back from his dark eyes.  He said nothing to her of that, though silently admitted that she was right.  Though bandits in Skyrim were notorious for kidnapping women to satisfy their own needs, Hjalmar could not find it in his soul.  Every frightened, naked girl only reminded him of his mother and her pleas for his father to stop hurting her…

            _I could never do that,_ he thought darkly, shifting his weight. “You’ve let Fraener get to you,” He stated, not even bothering to ask if it was true.  She quirked an eyebrow in response and gave a shake of her head.

            “You think I’m that crazy?”

            “He was… not like me.”

            “He was also a terrible drunk that couldn’t even form sentences, much less put up a fight.”

            Hjalmar laughed at this, his voice a delighted rumble before a sharp pain from his wound silenced him with a wince.  He wouldn’t hide his amusement and relief that she had refused Fraener; female bandits were the worst kind of outlaws.  They could get away with so much, and slither their way into a leader’s good graces.  The Bandit King suspected that was why so many had been willing to give themselves to him.  He had never slept with someone who wasn’t his subordinate, and though the years had brought women and their moans of love and affection in his ears, he had never felt truly inspired to return such passion murmurs to them.  It had been an itch to him, a need that was akin to hunger, and the women had provided for it.  Hjalmar had never been sure if how he felt about their affections, be they gambles for power or infatuation.

            But Kelda had always been different with her red-painted face and her hair that fell down to the small of her back when she let it.  Her sass and attitude appeased him; it meant she was strong and confident enough in her ability, and the Bandit King liked that.  He threaded his finger through her soft goldenrod hair, letting it ascend and tuck it behind her small ear.  “You want to pick up where we left off?” Kelda asked him, more quietly now, and Hjalmar’s lip flickered with a smile. 

            “Aye,” Hjalmar grunted, “I do.” He felt the itch between his legs, growing as he drew closer to her.  Kelda didn’t back away from his bearlike stature—another small victory.

            “I saw you die,” Kelda began, her voice sinking to a small whimper.

            It made him pause, and his bushy brows lifted with surprise. _It affected her,_ the Bandit King realized. _She thought I was dead and she was…_ Affected was the next word that came to mind.  _Upset_ was the word he was almost too afraid to say, even in the comfort of his mind.  Nessa had been weak, a bleating lamb whenever her hands were dirtied.  Kelda had been steely and quick the entirety of her career with the Blood Raiders.  The notion of her being upset made the bearish Nord want to giggle with glee, but he settled with a knowing look.

            “Well,” Hjalmar replied thoughtfully, his arms snaking themselves into a loose, gentle hug about her shorter, smaller form, “I’m here _now._ ”  He let his arms tighten around her, “Alive, too.”  One of his hands guided her head to his chest, over his heart, and the Bandit King muttered, “See?” _I’m a sentimental, romantic fool,_ thought the Nord with an inward sigh.  _The men would laugh if they saw me, comforting her as though I’m some noble warrior._

            She gave him a kiss in response, her lips warm and soft against his.  His arms clasped her tighter, threatening to never release her.   Her smaller hands wound their way up his bared chest, playing with the auburn hairs that riddled his fair skin.  Fingers tracing his jawline, the blonde woman reached up to press her lips against his mouth again, her breath hot and full of desire.  He cradled her as he found his way to an unused mat on the floor of the shack, tucked away in a largely empty room.  She pulled away from him with surprising speed and the Bandit King gave her a wry smirk.  He pursued her to the mat, kicking the creaking wooden door shut with hardly a care in the world.  _They’ll all suspect something,_ he thought, but couldn’t care less.  Sveinn had walked in once, and that had been awkward at first, but Hjalmar was not phased in the slightest.  _It’s in a man’s nature to want this._

            He had started off as loving and passionate, but his hunger was growing, throbbing, and the sinewy Nord hugged her, forcing her against the wall.  The brief sting of his side wound made him recall his journey, and the moment he took to wince was the only moment Kelda needed.  With a tug, his soft cloth pants were fallen, underclothes struggling to keep their contents contained.   There was no snide remark, but her hazel eyes glinted with a sort of mischievousness that made him smile all the same, his arms still trapping her against the wall.  The fair-skinned Nord nuzzled her nape, letting his teeth graze her skin lightly, nibbling the back of her neck.  Involuntarily, his torso pressed into hers, bulge between his legs finding a small amount of pleasure in being squeezed between their hips.

            His hands found the small tie keeping her hair back and he tugged it away with surprising elegance.  Her hands began to knead his scalp lightly, fingers twisting and combing his mane of burgundy hair as his bites trailed to her shoulder.  Softly, a moan escaped her lips, and he could feel her weaken to his advances.  She groomed him more, his hips stirring into hers with longing, his shaft attempting to peek from the top of his thin smallclothes. One of his hands trailed down her side, feeling her curves and his need growing with every passing second.  His fingers tickled their way back to her top, and he wove his hand underneath her tunic, grasping her bare left breast in his hand.  Hips moving all on their own, they rocked against her, moving in a natural rhythm with his thrusts.

            Hjalmar’s hand moved from her chest until it rested on her back.  He pulled her away from the wall, steering her willing and ready form towards the mat.  She aided him in tugging away her top, her breasts falling into his hands perfectly as he cupped them tenderly. She pulled herself out of her pants before he could do so himself, and that widened his wicked grin.  As he massaged the curves in her chest with his massive hand, she peeked a few fingers into the pouch at his crotch, the tips teasing the skin that sheathed his swollen manhood.  He gasped as she drew him out of the small cloth, her fingers pulling the skin down to reveal his inflamed pink head.

             She stroked him, letting the layer of skin sheath and unsheathe his shaft.  He moaned into her mouth, his hands moving from her breasts to the heat between her legs.  Her wetness caught him by surprise at first, her lips opened for him to enter and he dared to gently curl his index finger into her folds.  At once, she snuggled closer to him, her head on his chest and her legs widening for more.  He toyed with her as she squeezed him, the rhythm enough to drive him wild, his hand sliding up her torso, cupping her shoulder and turning her over.

            He was a titan on top of her, but she didn’t seem to mind it in the slightest.  Hands gripping her thighs, he slid into her wetness, his cock twitching with delight.  His motion was soft at first, gentle and passionate, but increasing in tempo.  Her moans were drowned in the sound of their union, his hips bucking wildly against her cheeks.  Hjalmar couldn’t recall the last time he had been given the sweet treat of a woman’s body, and the pleasure overwhelmed him.  He rocked into her, shaft tightening with exquisite joy and his hands caressing every inch of her fair skin that they could reach.

            His peak came faster than he had anticipated, his fingers groping her close as he came, shuddering, grunting, and sweating.  She might have let out a cry, but he wasn’t sure, holding her close as the last drops shot from his head, feeling her warmth squeeze his length.  Hjalmar allowed himself to linger within for a moment before he withdrew. He pulled the skin back over himself to sheath the sensitive head, and lay next to her, his chest still heaving with exertion.

            “That… was it?” Kelda panted, looking at him with playful, albeit tired eyes.  “Some Bandit King you are… Hardly lasting like that…”

            “Shut up, woman,” Hjalmar remarked, a strangeness tingling about his chest.  He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, trying to conceal a slight smile. _Yes,_ he thought, sneaking a look at her as she fought to sit up, only to snuggle back onto the furs on the floor.  _Different._ But it was a sort of different that Hjalmar could not define.  He just hoped he wasn’t turning into a hopeless romantic.

            A moment of respite passed, and though Kelda’s eyes drifted close out of exhaustion, Hjalmar rose from the clump of furs.  He left her partially covered under a deerskin rug, pulling on his underclothes and buckling his belt.  With one final look at the snoozing woman, he slid his tunic on, gingerly avoiding the bandaged wound, and crept out of the door.  _Best let her sleep,_ he thought to himself, though he wasn’t sure why.  He made his way to the rickety porch of Traitor’s Post, his hands lightly resting upon the wooden railway.

            “Blade’s all polished and clean, Bandit King,” Sveinn greeted him meekly, the greatsword laying in both hands, extended for the Nord to take it. 

            “Thank you, lad,” Hjalmar said politely, taking it by the hilt and studying it with his dark eyes.  When Fraener had used it, the greatsword had been nothing more than a clumsy cleaver.  But Hjalmar Bearblood’s trained eyes skimmed its surface, eying the ripples in the metal and allowing himself a small smile.  It was made of good steel—better forged than the warhammer he had taken from the caverns beneath Helgen.

            “Fraener’s all strung up,” Sveinn added, “Are we going on a raid soon?”

            “No,” Hjalmar replied, “But we are _going_.”

            “Where?” Sveinn asked, ebony brows rising.

            Dagir and Eitri were dots on the road, but he recognized them all the same.  Nessa had been buried into a shallow grave nearby, nothing but a small slate of stone marking where she had been laid to rest.  There was a small wreath of flowers about the rock, but he supposed Kelda or Sveinn had been the ones nice enough to do that.  Death was common in their perilous career; one learned not to mourn those who passed on, but to honor them with a goblet of warm mead.  Beyond, his eyes skirted to the horizon, a distant gray shape looming against the cloudy sky.  “Windhelm,” Hjalmar said after a moment of consideration, a knowing glint in his almond eyes.  “To the Palace of Kings.”


	15. Ill Winds - Part 4

_Ailonwe_

 

            The Dunmer girl kept the off-white parchment in a delicate, firm grip as she approached the doorstep.  Crimson eyes shifting around the gray, stony walls, she tried to fight a chill that ran down her spine.  The journey from Whiterun to Windhelm had been long, and hadn’t done much for young Ailonwe Kevarathi, who still dreamed of the charred corpses in Helgen.  But she had at last made it to the gray, gloomy city, though it had been hard to explain to Bjorlam why she had to change destinations.

            He had comforted her as best as he could, but her heart remained heavy with grief over the life she had craved so desperately.  Bjorlam agreed to take her to the ancient city of Windhelm, though not without warning that most of the Dunmer within the Eastmarch were impoverished and often spat upon.  Naively, the girl had thought him to be exaggerating, but the Gray Quarter surprised her.  A Nord by the gate had muttered something sinister to his friend, and though he had said nothing outright, his eyes gleamed of malicious intent, making her all the more uncomfortable.  It had not taken long to find Farys Vamori’s house; a guard pointed her in the right direction, albeit strangely gruff for someone of the law.  She had thanked him and had hurried along her way, the unfriendly eyes of the bleak city staring holes through her frail form.

            She found his abode to be humble from the exterior, made of the same old, crumbling stone as everything else in the Gray Quarter.  Snow had been falling for almost two days, though in flurries of small flakes that merely dusted everything it touched.  The roof was seeping with snow, and icicles dangled with freezing droplets occasionally dripping into the ground.  It was not a manse by far, or anything made to be impressive, but she supposed it had a hearth.  She shivered, cold, but nerves prevented her from stepping onto the slick, ice-covered porch.

            Farys Vamori was a name Ailonwe had heard once or twice.  Her mother had once said that the Vamori clan was not of high stature, but had remained a loyal friend to Kevarathi since the days of Halia the Hero, when the Dragonfires had been extinguished.  The circumstances of the friendship were hazy at best, though Ailonwe didn’t ever press it.  She trusted her mother’s judgment, and if Farys was a good enough man, she would not decline his offer for marriage.  _Not that I have much of a choice,_ thought the Dunmer girl with melancholy disdain. _They expect me to do this.  I’m supposed to do this._   But in her mind, she was supposed to marry a lordling and have a hold all to herself.  In her mind, she was as rich as the Emperor himself, and waved money about as though it grew upon the trees.  _This isn’t my dream,_ Ailonwe thought gloomily, letting her feet take her to the very front of the house.  She began to reach out with a fist to gently knock, but hesitated, her heart cracking with sorrow. _This cold, nightmarish land… It isn’t what I wanted._   But she had to do this, for the family.  Everything was for the family now, to uphold a good face and to continue the clan’s survival. Vamori wasn’t a fancy name with titles abound, but it was still _something_ at least.

            Most of House Kevarathi were inclined to only befriend those of a similar social status, spitting upon the peasants and offering little charity.  Once, she had heard her grandfather lecturing other members of the house about this; he had been a generous man to the peasants, and it was said that many wept when he had passed on.  After his death, however, his son closed down his charities, and many continued to sleep in the sewers of Skingrad. _He’s middle class,_ she told herself, trying to make herself feel more positive about the arrangement. _He’s not a peasant, he lives humbly, but he’s still got wealth.  He’s still honorable.  He’s doing this to help Mother, there’s no need to be rude…_ It was an inward pep talk she wished she could believe fully.

            Meekly, she reached out with a faded glove lined with fox fur, and gave a soft, meek knock to the wooden door.  A moment or two passed, and she repeated, willing herself to knock louder.  The quietness of the Gray Quarter made her all the more uncomfortable.  The sun was setting and the wind seemed all the more biting by the minute.

            The girl thought to knock again when the door creaked open, and a rough greeting was sent her way, “Azura bless, Revyn, I will not have any more of your— _oh_.” His sanguine eyes stared down at her, and Ailonwe tried not to look too intimidated. 

            She stiffened her lower lip, and looked Farys Vamori in the red eyes.  _He’s older_ , Ailonwe thought frantically, his long ebony hair tied back into a ponytail.  Farys’ face was gaunt in a way, angled and triangular with a pointed beak of a nose.  His ears jutted strangely out from his head, and his facial hair consisted of a well-trimmed goatee and a mustache.  He reminded her of a hawk, his eyes judgmental and glaring.  She fought to keep eye contact, but found herself staring at his beaklike nose more than his eyes.

            “Farys… Vamori?” Ailonwe asked, fighting to keep her voice from shaking. When he grunted a yes, her stomach churned uncomfortably, “My name is Ailonwe Kevarathi.  I’m… I’m sure you’ve been in contact with my mother.”

            Farys studied her for a moment before beckoning her into his house, muttering something inaudible under his breath.  Ailonwe stepped in, eager to shut the cold out, but not eager to meet her fiancé.  Farys’ eyes did not move from her as she made her way to a nearby chair to sit down.  He took his seat across from her, a few papers strewn about the surface.  Farys ignored them, instead pointedly looking at her, lips pursed.

            The silence that rang in her ears was unpleasant, awkward, and stifling. Ailonwe’s eyes scanned the papers that lay about the table, various texts standing out to her. “Beware the Butcher!” one proclaimed in gorgeous calligraphy.  Another, she noted, was from her mother, titled, “To my dear Farys,” in looped letters.  “Well?” she asked after looking up at the man, voice breaking with frustration and fear.

            “You’re not as old as I expected,” Farys admitted, leaning back in his chair, a frown curling his thin lips. Ailonwe stifled an outraged response, instead looking down at her hands, which were tucked nicely into her lap.  Farys sighed, taking an apple from a nearby basket of fruit and cutting into it delicately with a knife. “There’s a few things you ought to know about Windhelm.  Every night, Rolff Stone-Fist comes into the quarter, and he hits the closest Dunmer he can get his hands on- be it a man, woman, or child.  Angrenor Once-Honored usually helps, too, from what I’ve heard.  It’s not safe to be outside after sunset.”  All of this meant nothing to her- after Helgen and the letter from her mother, she was convinced this bleak province wanted to see her dead. “There’s been a murderer on the streets as well.  Been targeting women.  Another reason for you to be back here by nightfall.” 

            “Why are you living here?” Ailonwe finally piped up, staring at the man incredulously.  She was not liking the sound of her new home, but Farys didn’t seem to care to answer her.

            “In two days, we’ll leave for Riften,” Farys continued, “It’ll do well for the both of us to leave this place for awhile.  Since everything seems to be going to hell lately.” He ate a slice of apple, a glob of juice clinging to his facial hair. Ailonwe tried to hide her grimace with a hand.

            “Why are we going to Riften?  I hear there’s nothing but thieves there.”

            “There’s a temple there, as well.  A temple of Mara.”

            “ _Oh_.”

            The temple of Mara was where weddings were held, at least by Nordic tradition.  Ailonwe didn’t keep to the gods of her people, preferring the Eight Divines.  Mara presided over weddings; it was appropriate that they should go there to be wed.  She looked down at her hands again. _He’ll provide for you, that’s what Mother said,_ Ailonwe thought, trying desperately to reassure herself. _He’s not a bad looking man.  He’s older, yes, but he has a job here.  He has gold, enough to maybe get me to the College one day.  And he can take care of me._   There was nothing back home now, she knew.  Her family manor in Skingrad was to be sold.  Nothing would remain of House Kevarathi except for ashes, and she could not fall with them.  She would keep the house name respectable.

            He warily studied her crestfallen expression, moving the papers about with one hand while he munched on another apple slice.  “From Riften, we’ll return here.  I can’t ask for too long off of work, or else Tulvur will have my head.”  Ailonwe wasn’t sure who Tulvur was, but nodded all the same.  Farys forced a pleasant smile, “We’ll get you a fine dress.” A pause, “You can help pick out the ring, if you’d like.”

            “I would like that,” Ailonwe replied, her smile slightly less painful to wear, “Thank you.” His age made her want to address him as, “Mr. Vamori”, but she refrained.  _This is my fiancée,_ she told herself sternly. _I’m to address him as such._

            “You’ll have your own sleeping quarters for now,” Farys Vamori said carefully, pensively eying her, “There’s a bed in the eastern room.  That room will be yours.”  She tried to hide her relief.  He nodded, mumbling another inaudible string of sentences before adding, “I’ll find some dinner to put on the table.  You can unpack if that’s what suits you.” With a shrug, he rose to his feet and vanished into what she assumed was the kitchen, a good half of the apple still lying on the table.

            Ailonwe put her bags into the easternmost room, which was adorned with hardly anything.  There was a simple wardrobe closet, made of bland oak and engraved only with scars that it had earned over the years.  A bed was on the far end of the wall, and natural light flowed through the nearby window.  Outside, she heard the excited whoops from someone who had drank more than his fill of mead.  Quietly, the Dunmer sat on the bed, leaving her bag in the middle of the room.  She ran her fingers through the skins that covered the bed, feeling the coarser deerskin blanket that had been rolled and placed neatly.

            Everything seemed so bleak to her.  Most girls would squeal at the thought of being married.  But those girls were engaged to the love of their lives.  They would go to warmer places to spend their honeymoons and they would build their lives together out of love, not out of formalities and desperation.  Ailonwe didn’t want to think about how desperate her family’s situation was if she was being forced to wed a man so poor.  Her mother said he would take care of her, but she failed to see how.  Where was his gold?  He was being forced to live in a stormy, crumbling city, where the locals loathed him.  _He doesn’t have any money,_ Ailonwe thought miserably. _Mother just doesn’t care to have another mouth to feed._

            She laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.  Her hair was a mess, she knew, but for some reason, prim and proper Ailonwe didn’t care.  Sleepily, her blood red eyes fluttered shut and before long, her breathing slowed as she drifted into a dreamless sleep. It might have been an hour before she heard the door creak open, and stirred.  Her eyes opened when she heard the footsteps near the doorway, and she lifted her head.  Farys stood like a gargoyle in the entryway, uncertainty covering his hawk-like features.  “Dinner,” he announced in his husky, gruff tones, and departed quickly.

            Ailonwe rose from the bed, used a nearby mirror to groom her hair briefly and tie it back, then, with dismay flooding her heart, followed her fiancée into the meager dining room.  He had fixed something that looked like it had been roasted.  She wasn’t entirely sure what the meat was, but she doubted he would serve her something disease-ridden and disgusting.  A small woven basket sat in the middle of the table, filled past the brim with warm rolls.  Stomach gurgling, the Dunmer sat in the wooden chair across from Farys.

            She thought to snatch a roll immediately, but he extended his hand first.  At her puzzled look, the gruff Dunmer replied, “A blessing,” and Ailonwe joined hands with him reluctantly.  “Azura, bless this meal with thine holiness.  Let it nourish us and give us many sunrises and sunsets.  In thy name, I pray this.  Amen.”      

            _Azura?_  She snuck a look up at him as he grabbed a roll and broke it halfway to slide in a thin wedge of butter. _He’s a Daedra worshipper!_  What had her mother done by giving her dowry to this man?  He was old and he turned his back on the Eight Divines—for the sake of a demon-god.  _“The Daedra exist, yes, but they are meddlesome and cruel.  They are the reason we have so much suffering in the world.”_ Her mother had told her that once, and the Dunmer girl shivered. _He seems so nice, but why… Why worship a demon?_  It confused her; he had mentioned the Temple of Mara in Riften, and had seemed eager to go there for the wedding, but Mara was no foul Daedra.  _He must have just said that to make me feel better…_ Ailonwe wasn’t sure she could break bread with him, but he gave her no choice, setting down a small golden-brown roll upon her plate. 

            “Are you hungry?” He inquired lightly, his voice losing its harsher edge.

            “Y-yes,” Ailonwe stammered, looking abashed as she delicately cut the roll open.  As she buttered it, she began cautiously, “I have… never heard a prayer to Azura before.”

            “I wondered,” Farys smiled wryly, “Your mother had you raised with the Divines, did she?”

            “Yes,” Ailonwe answered with the nod of her head.

            He chuckled, but it was bitter sounding.  “I worship Azura, yes.  My family kept the ways of the Ashlanders when they moved from Vvardenfell.  It has been passed on for generations now.  Your mother’s family was no different before she married the Count.” Ailonwe perked up at this, her eyes widening, and Farys confirmed, “Yes, your mother and I grew up in Solstheim together, back when Raven Rock was abundant with ebony.” 

            “I… didn’t even know that she was from Solstheim,” Ailonwe admitted, cutting into the slab of meat on the plain white plate.  “She never spoke of her own family much.”

            “Her father was the captain of the Redoran Guard and one day, the young Count went to visit his distant cousins in Raven Rock.  That was how they met, and he refused to leave the island without her,” Farys explained in a low voice, “I have seen her maybe once or twice since that day.  I will never forget how excited she was to leave Solstheim, and how she wanted to see the warm southern lands of Cyrodiil.  I am pleased she got her wish.”  There was an uncomfortable silence as Ailonwe began to eat, and Farys took a long drink of ale.

            The food was a tad over cooked, but it was still good all the same, and she ate without hardly looking at her fiancée.  Inwardly, she was a confused mass of emotion, questioning if she could ever bother to call Farys her “love”.  _He’s so old,_ part of her chirped.  And that was countered with: _He’s a nice man._  To which her mind would say: _He worships Daedra!_   The battle was loud within her mind, and she hated it.  

            “Ailonwe.  That’s a strange name for a Dunmer,” Farys began awkwardly, and the girl slowly lifted her eyes to meet his.  Uncomfortably, the man shrugged, “It’s typically an Altmer name.”

            “I was named after a hero of old,” Ailonwe replied, fighting to keep her voice from sounding tired and strained. 

            “Ah, Ailonwe, Champion of Morrowind. I recall that tale.  The Nerevarine,” Farys Vamori smiled, “She was an Altmer, or so some say.  Others say she was a Chimer, unpunished due to Azura’s grace.  Your mother was a fan of the tale, I should have suspected she would name her firstborn after the hero.”

            “She almost named me Halia, but that’s become a common name in House Kevarathi,” Ailonwe replied, sipping from her goblet elegantly.

            “I can imagine,” his husky voice sounded far more pleasant with a chuckle in it, and Ailonwe couldn’t suppress a sugar-sweet smile.  _Perhaps this won’t be so bad…_ She could tell her was truly making an effort to please her, even if he was awkward about it. He finished his own piece of roast, before he added, “Tomorrow, I will give you a small tour of Windhelm.  I will show you where the marketplace is and we’ll go to pick out a ring.  I will ask Tulvur for the rest of the week off.  He will understand, I hope.”

            “Who is Tulvur?” Ailonwe asked quietly.

            “Tulvur.  A farmer that lives just outside the city walls works for Torsten Cruel-Sea.  I help harvest the wheat for the farm, as well as the snowberries.  I also care for the livestock there….” Farys explained, “It… does not pay as much as I’m sure you’re used to, but it’s enough to get food on the table at least.”

            _At least…_ Her heart sank a little, but a more snide part of her had warned her not to be hopeful.  But that reminded her of the money she had brought with her. “I sold a few things on my way over that I erm… found,” She wasn’t sure she wanted her fiancée to know about the dragon incident in Helgen; frankly, it was a catastrophe best forgotten, though she still planned to send a letter to her mother about the event.  “It’s not much.  Perhaps 300 gold.”  The golden pendant she had found under Helgen had also been sold.  It had shone beautifully in the sunlight, and though she wanted to keep it with all of her heart, she had sold it shortly after her fit of despair at Nightgate Inn.  Her heart pulsed with regret, but she tried to shrug it aside.

            “That’s wonderful,” Farys’s lip twisted into a small smile. “It’ll help with the ring, I’m sure.  And the dress.”

            _I suppose our finances might as well be one,_ Ailonwe thought with an inward sigh.  “My parents can’t make it here, though I suppose you already knew that…” Ailonwe replied. 

            “I have a few friends who would like to attend.  They’ll be there,” Farys Vamori responded, pausing to add, “I know this is… sudden.  And you are probably incredibly thrilled with the idea.  But I will try to provide for you.  I will… Try to make the wedding as much of a woman’s dream as I can.” His words were spilling out suddenly, and Ailonwe wasn’t sure what to make of the stern-eyed Farys. “Windhelm is not an ideal place for Dunmer, I know.  But give me a chance.”

            It was a plea of desperation, and she swore she saw a glistening layer of tears in the middle-aged man’s sanguine eyes.  Ailonwe’s head bobbed up and down, unsure of what to say.  He seemed partially relieved, and that made her feel all the more relieved, and as he took his dish to the sink, she swore she heard the slightest bit of a wearied sigh. _He’s just as nervous as I am,_ Ailonwe realized, and that made her pause to think.  After finishing her meal, she carried her dishes to the wash basin, but he shooed her away, saying that she was still a guest in his house.

             Instead, she retired to the washing room, shutting the door and slipping off the dress she had been wearing every other day since Riverwood.  The basin had already been filled, much to her surprise.  It seemed used and spent, and though she grimaced inwardly at bathing in another’s filth, she reminded herself that not everyone could afford fresh bathing water on a whim.  She would have to make do.

             Sliding in, she found the water to be much too cold for her liking. Despite the goose bumps, she suffered through the washing, eager to scrub herself clean of the grim from her journey.  She scrubbed for a long while, going over each area at least three times before she felt completely satisfied.  Her hair fell down to the small of her back in a giant black mass, and she dried it with a towel before she climbed out of the basin.  Slipping into a wool gown, she found herself far more sheltered from the biting cold.  The hearth was enough to warm the living room but the outer wings of the small house still were bitterly chilling.

            Farys was reading near the hearth when she left the washing room.  Dirty clothes in hand, the Dunmer journeyed into the confines of her room, sorting her luggage as best as she could see fit.  Some of the more expensive clothes had been sold away, to help with the new life she was being thrust into. But some luxury items had been kept for comfort’s sake. _Some of these I’ll need one day,_ she told herself. _Mother will get our wealth back… I’ve sat here doubting this entire time.  I should have more faith.  The Divines know that we’re a good family.  They know we’ve done nothing wrong._  It would take time and it would take effort, but Ailonwe Kevarathi did not doubt her mother’s skill and she did not doubt the Divines.  _This is all temporary…_   She told herself as she folded her dresses and tucked whatever boots she had left away near the corner of the room.  _I will not stay here for long…_


	16. Ill Winds - Part 5

_Synestra_

 

            “You’ve done well,” Balgruuf commended her as she sat in the chair.  Farengar had been equally pleased to see the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow, although he complained over the bloodstains Synestra had gotten onto its dark, slick surface.  The court wizard tended to her wounds, all the while the one-eyed Altmer gnashed her teeth together.  The knife wound was deep, something that Farengar muttered to himself as he worked.  Her healing skills were good enough to survive the wilderness by herself, but this was beyond her.  

            Farengar’s mute assistant had taken the tablet almost immediately, promising to begin translating it at once.  Balgruuf insisted on making Farengar look over Synestra’s wounds, which the Altmer didn’t mind in the least. His healing spell tingled as it caressed the wound, semi-sewing it shut.  He apologized and remarked that it might scar over, but Synestra shrugged it off.  She had more marks than she could count, riddling her body in a strange pattern.

            “I’d ask if you encountered anything problematic, but that seems to be a foolish question,” Balgruuf remarked.

            “The walking dead did this,” Synestra answered, “I have seen zombies, but these were different.  It was not necromancy that binded them.”

            “Draugr,” Farengar said before the Jarl could open his mouth. “They say that the dead in the old crypts walk, that they’re cursed.  Some even say that the Draugr are men who used to serve dragon priests.”

            “There is a darkness that I cannot fathom that lies within them,” Synestra said gravely, “I do not wish to cross blades with one again.”

            “If you delve into any more ruins, you will find them.  That, I guarantee,” Farengar shook his head, “Your wound’s sealed and as patched up to the best of my ability.”

            “You have my thanks,” Synestra dipped her head to the Nord wizard.

             “For your service to Whiterun, you are permitted to buy lands in this hold.  I would be honored if—” The Jarl of Whiterun was cut off by the swinging of the heavy oaken doors.

            “Jarl Balgruuf!” It was Irileth the Dunmer woman, “Farengar!”  She sounded out of breath but sprinted up the steps, towards the tables that rested in the eyes of the throne. “A dragon has been sighted nearby!” That was enough to hush the entire hall, and Balgruuf’s eyes widened with fear.

            “A dragon?  How exciting!  Where was it seen?  What was it doing?” Farengar asked, his voice as giddy as that of a school boy’s. 

            “I’d take this a bit more seriously if I were you,” Irileth chided him sternly, “If a dragon attacks Whiterun, I don’t know if we can stop it.  There is a guard who has seen this dragon.  He’s on his way over with his report.”

            “This is a matter most grave,” Balgruuf agreed, “And we will need to post as many guardsmen as possible.  No dragon will burn this city so long as I am Jarl.”  His resolve was touching, Synestra thought, but his confidence needed to be backed by steel.  A guard clad in the bright sunny yellow of Whiterun rushed into the room, removing his helmet out of respect to the Jarl.  Sweat beaded about his forehead, clinging to the soft brown mop atop his head.  Involuntarily, he brushed it all out of his eyes, panting while he gave the Jarl a proper, courteous bow.

            “Tell him what you told me.  About the dragon,” Irileth said sharply, her hand on her hilt at all times.  

            “Uh… that’s right.  We saw it coming from the south,” the guard stammered and Synestra’s heart tightened with worry. _Riverwood…_ But she swallowed back her fears quickly as he continued his report, “It was fast… faster than anything I’ve ever seen.”

            Jarl Balgruuf the Greater’s jaw clenched, “What did it do?  Was it attacking the watchtower?” _Was there smoke in the distance?  Has Riverwood burned to the ground already?_  Synestra thought in frustration. _It’s scarcely been two days and I’ve already failed Alvor and Sigrid.  The grateful guest that I am for their hospitality…_

            “No, my lord.  It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life… I thought it would come after me for sure,” the guard answered, out of breath and shaking through his chainmail.

            “Good work, son.  We’ll take it from here.  Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You’ve earned it,” Balgruuf nodded and the guard took his leave.  “Irileth, you better gather some guardsmen and head down there.”

            “As you wish.”

            As Irileth turned on her heel to depart the throne room, Synestra stepped forward, her wound itching with irritation.  “My lord, if it came from the south, it could be that Riverwood is burning as we speak.  I owe Alvor and Sigrid many thanks for their hospitality, I—”

            He cut her off with the raise of his wrinkling, calloused hand, “I understand, Synestra.  I will send a scout to see if Riverwood still stands.  For now, you also have earned your rest, and should find it in the safety of Dragonsreach.  Your wound is still great.”

            “You need my help,” Synestra protested, “My wound is mostly healed, thanks to your court wizard.  I can still fight.”  Balgruuf looked wary of this idea, so she pressed on, “I survived Helgen and I am the only one in Whiterun who has.  I have seen how dragons fight.  Your men need someone with experience.”

            “They have seen battle,” Balgruuf began.

            “With bandits, perhaps a giant, maybe even a troll.  Dragons are far different,” Synestra interjected, her arms folded across her chest.  “I am willing to do this, Jarl, for no price… if that’s what you are worried about.  I wish to do this because it is what is necessary… as well as what is right.”

            Something in his pale cerulean eyes changed, and the Nord was quiet for a moment.  Outside, she could hear bells being tolled from the temple to Kynareth, as well as the shouts of guards and citizens alike.  They were taking cover, she realized, her heart racing.  _The dragon might be near the watchtower now, but it could just as easily fly overhead.  One jet of flame is all that would be needed._   “Go, then,” Balgruuf said, his voice calm and quiet, “Don’t fail me.”

            “Thank you, my lord,” Synestra bowed and turned to leave.  Her boots thudded down the steps and she checked to make sure one of the Imperial bracers was fastened to her forearm tightly.  _I’ll have to get myself a set of armor at this rate,_ she thought. _Trouble seems to find me here in Skyrim… and this borrowed Legionnaire outfit will not do for much longer._

            The Imperial blade drew itself from her sheath, into her hand as soon as she pushed her way out of the heavy oaken doors.  Dragonsreach’s porch oversaw the golden flatlands that spanned across Whiterun Hold.  The watchtower was a crumpled and broken thing, slightly tipped over and visible from where she stood.  Sure enough, a silhouette darted among the clouds, its mighty wings carrying it fast and far with each beat.  Synestra descended the steps quickly, making her way down the hill where the denizens of Whiterun were in a panic.

            She ignored their cries and their bleating, hastily descending the massive hill. Irileth was a dark warrior compared to the cleanly mailed, brightly-clad guards of Whiterun.  The Dunmer was rallying the troops, her steel blade held overhead. Synestra only caught the final words to it, “We will not let these monsters burn out homes to the ground and slaughter our families!  To me, Whiterun guards!  Let us bring this threat to an end!”

            As the guards began to file their way through the city gate, the housecarl whirled upon Synestra, her blade still at hand, “I don’t know who you are or why you have taken such a firm interest in this city, but I am watching you.” Her eyes were alight with suspicion and anger, brow narrowed.  With that, Irileth marched through the gate, her teeth gnashed out of silent rage.

            Synestra blinked in response, but followed the Dunmer all the same, rolling her single blazing eye.  _Dunmer are always so mistrustful,_ she reminded herself. _Even when they need not be so on edge._   The pale-gold Altmer gave the slight shake of her head as she shadowed the Dark Elf from the city and onto the graystone path leading away from the hold capital.  “The watchtower looks like it’s on fire!” one guard exclaimed out of horror, and Synestra cupped a hand over her eyes to see for herself.  A single pillar of smoke spiraled upward, creating a dark streak in against the azure sky.  _A wildfire will spread if we are not careful,_ thought the Altmer soberly, her knuckles whitening around the hilt of her sword. 

            “Commander Caius Ulpius,” Irileth hailed a balding Imperial man from the walltop, “The Jarl has sent me to deal with the dragon.  You should stay and defend the city walls.”

            The Imperial’s face was grim, his hand on his sword’s hilt, “Divines go with you, if you’re heading to deal with that monster.  I will ready the archers if it should come this way.  Irileth, be careful.  You’re more useful to us alive than dead.”

            “Your concern is touching, Commander,” Irileth replied coolly, “But I don’t need the luck of the gods on my side.”

            _That kind of arrogance will be your downfall,_ thought the Altmer with the slightest grimace on her face.  The Commander of the Guard saluted them all stiffly, dark brown eyes full of steely vigilance.  As they made their way down the road, the veteran let herself look over the walls, where grim-faced men stood, bows in hand and their eyes set to the watchtower.  A few had their helms on, but she could sense their uneasiness all the same.  A few of the guardsmen on the wall shouted words of encouragement to their comrades, who waved or seemed not to even hear them.  Irileth had chosen a handful of guards to combat the fire-breathing monstrosity.  _Too few, though._ The Altmer recalled Helgen and her stomach churned. 

            She stole a glance back at Whiterun, Dragonsreach casting its long shadow across the tundra.  The veteran thought of the women that were clutching their babes in the cellars and basements and the men who were readying their hunting bows and farming scythes. _None of that would stand a chance,_ she lamented to herself. _It’s the guard that will triumph, or Whiterun will perish in a flurry of flames._ She thought of the warriors that had been fighting the giant, and wondered where they were, or if they were readying their blades within Whiterun.  _Maybe they could fell it,_ Synestra considered. _If they take heart, they might be Whiterun’s last defense…_

            Synestra didn’t recall the year, but once she had been this nervous and solemn.  The walls of the Imperial City had seemed so daunting to her, but she had told herself that once the first wall crumbled, it would all beover.  When the first wall did collapse, she told herself as she polished her golden and ebony sword, the next wall that fell would mark their victory.  _That was long ago,_ she mused to herself. _Almost as though it was another lifetime._ Her hand touched the scars on her lips, and she smiled despite herself. _I was a different person then.  Now, I fight to save cities, not sack them._

            The walk to the watchtower was a blur in her memory, and when they stood in front of the burning rubble, Synestra had to refrain from holding her nose.  She could muster the strength to not hurl at the smell of decay and death, but burning flesh was another story entirely.  “Are there any survivors?” She asked, mostly to herself, but it was Irileth that answered.

            “I doubt it.” 

            But a cry proved her wrong.  Synestra’s neck craned back as she looked up at the partially collapsed tower, the yellow sash of a guard visible despite the burning of smoke in her single eye.  Crimson splotched his uniform, his helmet missing and his axe in his hand still, clean and devoid of blood. “No!” He screamed at them, hands waving, “No, get back!  GET BACK!” 

            “Calm yourself, man, tell us-” Irileth started, but his screaming cut her off.

            “Hroki and Tor just got grabbed!  They tried to make a run for it!”  His hysterics reminded her of Helgen and she scowled, her marred lips curling. “I don’t… I don’t know where it went… But it’ll come back.  We thought it left once, then it was here.  It ate them…”

            Synestra looked at Irileth, remarking, “He’s scarcely any good to us the way he is.”  The Dunmer was reluctant, but she nodded all the same, her face wrought with frustration.  Dismayed, the Altmer began to search the rubble with her single good eye, trying to wipe away the tears that burned in their corners.  _Damn smoke…_ She cursed silently, her hand firm on her sword’s hilt as she walked the site of the attack.  Brush was burning around the chunks of the tower that had been torn to pieces by its claws and weight.  She saw a guard’s helm laying amid some of the rubble, and a body was halfway crushed by a piece of the tower’s top.  A few drops of blood splattered the golden blades of grass, and the Altmer made a face.  _It was gruesome… but swift._

            “Kynareth save us,” breathed someone behind her.  Looking past the tower, Synestra saw the silhouette, black as night, against the veil of white clouds.  It broke through them with wisps dancing around its wings, maw opened in a vicious snarl.  The dragon was not the same as the one from Helgen, she noticed, its eyes a blazing golden as opposed to a deep, bloody crimson.  Its scales were a mixture of cobalt and gray, its underside a paler ashen color.  “Here it comes!” Another person yelled, but Synestra didn’t know who it was.

            The dragon was a god of the skies, the humans below mere ants in comparison, and she watched it as it swept down from the heavens, its wings furling as it landed.  Horns were bent backwards from its skull, like those of an antelopes, and it stomped the ground with its large claws. A snarl erupted from its maw, and fire plumed from its throat, grazing the watchtower.  “Find cover!  Make every arrow count!” screamed Irileth over the sound of its ferocious roar.

             The guards began to fire their arrows, but Synestra charged forward. _I should have brought a bow,_ she realized, but the arrows served as a decent distraction.  Tail lashing, the dragon barreled over a guard that had strayed too close with his bow, and with another snarl, fire zipped through the air, devouring another one of Whiterun’s finest.  Though her heart screamed with fear, the Altmer picked her way to the dragon’s flank, the Imperial blade digging a trench across its hind quarters.  A piercing shriek erupted through the fray, and the reptile spun to face her, a set of claws sweeping her aside as though she were some ragdoll.  

            She thudded a few yards away, wincing as she rose and spitting a small glob of blood.  A tender touch to her lips revealed a small gash, and the only thing she could think at the time was: _It’ll go nicely with the other scars._ The dragon took to the sky once more, and Synestra watched it rise as she pushed herself to her feet, gripping her side with her free hand.  It circled the tower, spraying its fiery breath upon them, blood cascading from its flank wound.  The Altmer took cover near some of the rubble, her hand glowing with white as she reassured the old dagger wound that all was well.  Glancing up as the dragon’s shadow passed over her, the High Elf allowed herself to exhale and inhale a few deep breaths before she ran from her hiding place.

            The dragon’s shoulders were steadily becoming pincushions to the arrows shot by Irileth and her guardsmen, but it hardly seemed to be affecting its elegant, terrifying flight.  Its onslaught had taken out at least three guardsmen from what the Altmer could tell, and she gnashed her teeth in frustration.  _Its scales are thick, too thick for arrows to do anything… Unless aimed at the right spot._ “Hit the wings!” She cried out suddenly, “The wings!”  

            Irileth looked at her, auburn brows rising but she agreed, “Archers, aim for the dragon’s wings.  Let’s see if we can ground it!”  Synestra watched the Dunmer notch a shaft to her bow and let the missile fly with precision.  It hit the leathery wing, but the dragon paid no heed, sending a blast of fire their direction.  Synestra pulled Irileth away, ducking behind the tower. 

            “Everything has a weakness,” Synestra rasped, “The wings might be a start… The joints?” She asked, brows raised.

            “Could be,” Irileth agreed slowly, “But with its movement so jerky and swift, it’ll be hard to hit those with arrows.”

            She was right and Synestra clutched her hand into a fist.  Slamming her curled hand into the tower, the Altmer cursed loudly, the cries of the guardsmen resounding in the background.  _This is going to be a massacre if we let things keep up this way…_ “Magic?” She asked suddenly, looking at her curled fist, “Do you know any spells?”

            “Yes,” Irileth’s eyes brightened.

            “Lightning,” Synestra nodded, “It breathes fire.  I don’t think flames will be a likely threat to it.”

            “Understood,” Irileth replied with the nod of her head. As the dragon zipped overhead, Synestra ducked from the shadows, bloodied sword in one hand and the other curling with a brilliant flash of blue.  The bolt struck just to the left of the soaring reptile, which responded with a bone-chilling growl.  She chased the flying beast, her left hand releasing a second bolt of gleaming blue-white.  The zig-zag of lightning struck the dragon in its retreating wounded flank and its agonized cry rang across the flatlands.  It landed near a guardsmen taking shelter near part of the fallen tower.  He ducked beneath its snapping jaws, crying out for aid.  Synestra let a third spell zip from her fingertips, bolts of blue engulfing the dragon’s torso momentarily.

            It turned to engage her, fire burning in its mouth as its jaws swung open.  Synestra dodged to the left, sprinting forward and lunging.  Blade sticking itself in the dragon’s chest, Synestra’s free hand pressed against its scaly chest, electricity coursing through her. The dragon, rearing up clumsily and beating its wings, let out a cry of shock and rage.   A flurry of arrows began to assail it as the guardsmen regrouped.  Its screams were unnatural, filling her ears as the dragon staggered on its hind legs. Tail lashing out, it arched its neck and grabbed at her with its colossal jaws. She dropped to the ground, sword embedded to the hilt in its chest. 

            “It’s dying,” she breathed, looking at it as the guards began to assault it with their axes and swords.  Irileth led the charge, her blade cutting into the dragon’s nose, and her men cleaving at its wings until they were ripped, bloodied, and useless.  Synestra’s side throbbed, but she pointed a finger at the reptile, sending another bolt into the wound she had cut into its chest.

            Its tail threw back a few soldiers, Irileth included, and the dragon beat its mangled wings with snarls of despair and pain.  Panting, it lay on its side, muzzle riddled with wounds and legs failing under it.  It breathed a plume of flames at the soldiers, its body trembling as it tried to rise.  Golden eyes scanning the battlefield, the dragon let out a strange, gurgle of a snarl, its fangs stained and gnarled. “You have all lost,” A deep, rumble declared, the dragon’s jaws snapping at the guards as it shuddered violently, claws raking against the ground. 

            The dragon died with an unnatural spasm, its eyes stilling over as its body slumped over, hot, disgusting breath spilling from its agape mouth.  In deathly silence, the company of guardsmen stood, no one sure what to say.  “It’s dead,” Irileth broke the silence, “At least we know we can kill them.”

            “They can _talk_ ,” said another guard, astonished.

            Its corpse  lay there, wounds riddling it and blood seeping into the golden grass.  As its greyed-over eyes stared at her in death, the dragon seemed to be smiling, lip curled over permanently.  The Altmer uneasily took a step back, sheathing her bloodied sword and saying nothing, even as the guards began cheering.  “How are we going to move it?” asked one of Whiterun’s guards, and another chimed in with, “We’re not!  Leave it, I say.  It’ll decay and its bones’ll decorate the tundra.”

            “Its bones are worth a fortune!” Another declared, and Synestra turned to walk away from the gruesome form of the dragon.

            That was when her eyes lifted at the sight of the hooded woman.  Beneath it, the High Elf could see her curious eyes glinting from the shadows.  Her face was concealed, but Synestra could see the worn skin of a middle-aged woman, as well as a tendril of pale hair.  _Farengar’s assistant,_ she realized, wiping the blood from her lip. _Did she come out here to study the dragon?_ “You’re late,” the Altmer remarked in her gravelly voice, “It’s already dead.”

            “No,” the hooded woman replied firmly, “It’s not.”  When Synestra frowned at her, the woman lifted a hand, “Walk with me, elf, I have much to speak with you about.”  As the short, enigmatic woman beckoned her to follow, Synestra looked over her shoulder at the dragon’s corpse and the guards who were shouting their cries of victory into the blue heavens.  Irileth glanced at her, brows furrowed, but said nothing as the two slipped away.  

            The hooded woman said nothing as they made their return back to Whiterun, the guards at the gate asking them a myriad of questions.  Synestra deflected them carefully, pressing a glowing palm to her wound in an attempt to heal it with magic. She was silent, despite the ache in her side, vigilantly watching the suspicious woman with her sole eye.

            “That wound looks deep,” the woman remarked, and Synestra almost cursed her for insisting on having a conversation so abruptly after the fight against the dragon.

            “It looks worse than it is,” Synestra reassured her in a plain voice.  True enough, she hadn’t sustained any true injuries, though being batted by the dragon had partially opened her wound from Bleak Falls Barrow once more.  _Farengar’s magic has mostly stitched it back together, but some bits just didn’t hold up against the dragon…_

            Citizens were beginning to poke their heads out of their houses, and guards on the walltops were crying out that the dragon had fallen.  Bells began to toll as they passed by the general goods store, and yet Synestra could not feel the slightest bit relieved. They made their way a tavern with the sign “Bannered Mare” hanging nearby, and nestled themselves into the back corner.

            “I know who you are,” the assistant said in a matter-of-fact voice, drawing down her hood.  Synestra had never met this woman before, who was a Breton past her prime with her greying hair tied back.  Face worn from the years and from worry, she looked nothing like what the Altmer would have imagined, her bright blue eyes clouded with a sternness that Synestra would have expected from a school teacher.  “You don’t seem that concerned.”

            “You’re a Breton, not an Altmer,” Synestra answered quietly, “You’re not here to arrest me.  You wouldn’t do that in a public setting if you were.”  The scarred Altmer got no answer, and so she asked, “How do you know, that is my question.”

            “I have informants,” the Breton woman replied, sliding a small collection of papers. “Synestra of the Summerset Isles.  An ex-soldier of the Aldmeri Dominion.  Wanted for desertion.”  The Altmer looked at the papers, lifting them up to examine.  They were official Thalmor documents, sealed appropriately and folded neatly.  “I came across this once.  I had been looking for something else, but this finding always stuck to the back of my mind.”

            “Are you attempting to blackmail me, because I don’t typically go along with that,” Synestra said abruptly, eye flicking to the Breton. 

            “No,” the Breton answered firmly, “I am not.”  The barkeep gave them each a goblet of ale and disappeared back into the kitchen. “I found it intriguing that an Altmer was so keen on helping the Nords with their recent dragon problem.  Most of the Altmer in Skyrim are Thalmor agents.  And then I remembered your likeness from these reports.  It seemed like a strange coincidence that you should come to Whiterun when I was there… to help the Jarl with the dragons, no less.”

            Synestra gave her back the papers and ran her tongue over her bottom lip, “What is the part that you are not telling me?”  She asked finally, taking a sip of the ale.

            “My name is Delphine,” the Breton replied, “An enemy of the Thalmor, just as you are... and I know about the dragons.  A bit about where they’re from.  A bit about why they’re coming back.  You seem the type that wants to get rid of them because you _know_ that they’ll just continue wrecking havoc until all of Tamriel is bending knee to them once more.”  Synestra nodded quietly, and Delphine continued, “Skyrim is too lost in its civil war to care about what else is rampaging through the wilderness.  Some of them don’t believe the old legends.  I do.”

            “The legend of the Dragonborn?” Synestra asked her, voice quieting. “I have heard pieces of it.  Fortunately it seems as though the dragons can be felled without the help of the Dragonborn.”

            “Temporarily,” Delphine corrected her lightly, “They can be felled _temporarily_.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I mean that the dragon you just slew will rise.  It might be a day.  It might be a hundred days.  But without the soul of the dragon being devoured, the dragon is not fully dead.  Or should I say, the dragon has the ability to rise once more,” Delphine drank deep into her goblet of ale.

            “Necromancy?” Synestra asked solemnly, “Is someone raising them with magic?”

            “Magic of a sort,” Delphine nodded, “The stone you retrieved from Bleak Falls Barrow answered some questions for me.  It was a map of the burial mounds.  I have found a few… to be quite lacking in their respective buried dragons.”

            “So they’re coming back to life,” Synestra nodded, “Because of…?”

            Delphine shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t know.”  She shook her head, nipping at her lower lip out of frustration, “That’s why I needed the Dragonstone.  That’s why I needed to find out a lot of things, and I thought that fool of a wizard would know.  But he doesn’t.  We’re groping in the dark here!”  She was frustrated as she downed the ale, and Synestra watched quietly. “The Dragonborn is the only one that can devour the souls of the dragons, else they can be revived all over again… if the myths are true.”

            “So we need to find the Dragonborn,” the High Elf concluded firmly, “It’s a start, in the least.”

            “Except odds are that they don’t even know that they’re Dragonborn,” Delphine replied sourly, “They could be anywhere in Tamriel.  But you’re right.  That’s the best chance that we have.  Divide and conquer, I say.  We’ll need to keep our ears sharp for any strange rumors and tales.”

            _Grim odds_ , Synestra thought.  _But it’s that or… what?  Kill the dragons until they rise from death.  If it’s as this woman says, we’re doomed without a way to get rid of them permanently…_ It wasn’t a choice at all, the High Elf thought gravely.  The Dragonborn was the one who had the ability to save them all.  _Whoever it is will be Tamriel’s next greatest hero, as Halia Kevarathi was, and Ailonwe before her.  This is a threat that we cannot ignore, no matter if the Empire is in shambles._ “I will help you,” Synestra decided, “Tamriel stands no chance without the Dragonborn.”

            “Thank you, Synestra,” Delphine smiled pleasantly, “We must scatter to the four winds.  Keep your eyes on the skies, and your blade always drawn.  The dragons returning may signal the end to the world as we know it.”


	17. Ill Winds - Part 6

_Chiran_

 

            Windhelm was a bitter city, its buildings seeming to sigh with the wind.  Regrets and death seemed to cling to it like a bad rash, and Chiran felt a small flicker of apprehension as he neared the stables.  Ralof had led the way the entire time, and he climbed off his mount with a slight wince. “I don’t remember the last time I rode that long,” He confessed, rubbing at his hindquarters with a hand. “But we’re here at last!  The city of Windhelm.”

            It was not as impressive as Ralof had made it out to be, but Chiran slipped off his horse all the same with surprising nimbleness, his bow wrapped against his back.  The chainmail and uniform he had been given at the camp to replace the rickety armor from the caverns did not block out the biting wind.  He was grateful for his fur, but would’ve been more grateful if it had decided to grow longer.  But the tiger didn’t complain as he followed Ralof across a large, stony bridge towards the ancient city’s gates. 

            As the blonde Nord made for the doors, one of the guardsmen stopped him, “Hey!” His gravelly voice took Ralof by surprise, “You can go in… but…” He swung his helmed head to stare Chiran in the face. “ _You_ can’t.  Jarl’s orders.  All beastfolk must remain outside of the gates at all time.”

            “Keeps the fleas out,” another joked with a slight sneer in his voice.

            Chiran’s ears involuntarily went back and a small hiss crept from his agape muzzle.  It was Ralof that spoke next, however, “This Khajiit saved my life, and he’s wanting to join the Stormcloaks.  He’s a worthy soldier and knows Jarl Ulfric himself!  So step aside, unless you want to cross the Jarl.”

            “Jarl Ulfric knows a _cat_?” one of the guards sputtered and Ralof shoved him aside.            

            Chiran’s tail lashed as he walked by, his eyes ablaze as he stared down the guard.  Tongue lapping over the soft white fur around his muzzle, he let himself growl low in the depths of his throat.  As the guard edged away, the Khajiit had to keep from laughing aloud.  Ralof held the door for him and the archer found himself a little more impressed by Windhelm’s interior.  But the gray skies seemed to make the city inhospitable and cruel.  Posters hung on the walls and lampposts, saying to “Beware the Butcher” and though Chiran quirked a brow at this, Ralof had nothing to say about the matter.

            It was a straight line to the Palace of Kings, by far the bleakest of the buildings, but also the most impressive.  “The market’s that way,” Ralof instructed him, “Same with the blacksmith.  The other side of town has the Gray Quarter, where… Ah… a lot of Dunmer live.”  Chiran dipped his head in understanding, and kept walking, his expelled breath causing warm wisps to float about his face.  The guards to the left and right of the massive door gave them no hassle, though one turned his head to examine Chiran better.  

            _Khajiit are treated so disgracefully in this place,_ thought the orange and black cat to himself, earrings clinking together as one of his giant ears twitched in the guard’s direction _, only because they have made themselves out to be thieves and skooma dealers._   The inside of the Palace was far better polished than the outside, with a giant table in its entryway, leading up to the stony, but empty throne.  

            The Jarl was walking in, busily distracted in conversation with another Nord. It was a man wearing a bearskin cloak over his armor, his broad shoulders and hulking frame impressive.  Though the bearskin-clad man was by far the taller and more muscular of the two, he trailed after Ulfric Stormcloak as a puppy would after its owner. The Usurper looked distant and disinterested; his stormy eyes staring across the empty dining table and yet into nothingness all at once.  Chiran recalled Ulfric from Helgen—a lean Nord with a gallant mane of blonde hair that ran down his neck and brushed his shoulders.  Thin braids decorated the sides of his head, just above the ears, and a mantle of thick cloth hung about his shoulders, over his royal blue tunic. 

            They were speaking loudly, and Ralof hesitated to interrupt them.

            “Balgruuf still won’t give us a straight answer,” the one that wore the bearskin complained, his voice a low grumble. Chiran could tell little of his facial traits from so far away, but he seemed to be mostly bald with a long scruff of hair about his chin and jawline. 

            “He’s a true Nord.  He’ll come around.”

            Jarl Ulfric’s subordinate scoffed ruefully at this, “Don’t be so sure of that. We’ve intercepted messages from Solitude—the Empire’s putting a great deal of pressure on Whiterun.  And there’s no doubt why.  It’s the central part of the land.”  He scratched at his pale beard with a claw from his bearskin armor. “If he’s not with us, he’s against us, I say.”

            “An unhealthy way to look at it, Galmar,” Ulfric remarked, but smirked nonetheless. “But the more this tension continues, the more I agree.  The Empire will not discriminate the neutral from those who have turned against him.  Balgruuf will need to understand that.”

            Galmar snorted, “How long will you wait?”

            “You think I need to send him a stronger message?” Ulfric inquired lightly, “Any threats will push him to join General Tullius’s group of lapdogs, you know that.  I have pressured him enough for the time being.” The Jarl rested a hand on his throne, studying it pensively, “Though, taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would be quite the powerful statement, I would think.”

            His subordinate grinned from ear-to-ear, “Aye… so you’re ready to start this war in earnest, then?  I will call for the officers; they’ve been eager for this moment.”

            “Soon,” Ulfric cautioned him, sitting in his throne with a small sigh, “There’s a few promotions to be made and platoons to be assembled before we march on Whiterun.  I’ve been thinking of promoting Thorygg Sun-Killer and Frorkmar Banner-Torn to the rank of officer.  And we’ll need to do more recruiting before we can start this war officially.”

            “I still think you need to take all of the opposing Jarls out like you did to Deadking Torygg,” Galmar retorted with a slight huff in his husky voice. “They’ve turned their backs on the Old Ways.”

            “Torygg was a message to the other Jarls.  Whoever we replace the Jarls with will need the support of our armies,” Ulfric said carefully, gesturing for Ralof and Chiran to come forward with the flick of a few fingers.  Uncomfortably, Ralof stepped forward and Chiran shadowed him, ears twitching in paranoia at every sound.  “I would prefer to take Whiterun without bloodshed.  Balgruuf and I are… old friends of a sort. But I will not wait for his answer forever.”

            “The people are behind you,” Galmar assured him.

            “Many, I fear, still need convincing, Galmar.”

            “Then let them die with their false kings!”

            Chiran and Ralof stopped a few feet short of the throne, and though Ulfric spared them a quizzical look, he turned to Galmar, “We’ve been soldiers a long time. We know the price of freedom.” Something in his stormy eyes seemed to wince in remembrance, “The people are still weighing things in their hearts.  They have families to think of, and I can respect that.”

            Galmar’s teeth gritted and he remarked, “Many of their sons and daughters follow your banner.  We _are_ their families.”

            “Well put, my friend,” Ulfric conceded, “Galmar, tell me, why do you fight for me?”

            “I’ll die before the elves dictate the fates of men.  We are one in this, are we not?” Galmar asked gruffly, “You know I would follow you into Oblivion if it meant the end of those Thalmor bastards.”

            Ulfric gave a small chuckle to this, but it sounded grim and bitter.  “I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, who's names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing. I fight... because I must.”

            “Your words give voice to what we all feel, Ulfric, and that is why you will be High King,” Galmar said firmly, “But the day words are enough is the day that soldiers like us are no longer needed.”

            “I would gladly retire from the world were such a day to dawn.”

            “Aye, but in the mean time, we have a war to plan,” Galmar saluted him, “I have kept you long enough from your Jarl duties.  I apologize.”

            “There is no need for that, friend,” Ulfric waved his hand, “But these two have been waiting quite awhile.  And considering there have been no summons, I assume this is a matter of great importance?”

            “Jarl Ulfric!” Ralof exclaimed, approaching the throne and bowing, “Thank Talos you’re okay.”

            “Ralof. I thought it was you on the far end of the hall,” Ulfric straightened in his throne before he rose to greet the fellow Nord, his cloak almost dragging the ground. “I thought you perished in Helgen.  It is good to see you again.”  He embraced Ralof in a brotherly hug, clapping his back heartily before catching glimpse of the tall sniper.  Though his brow furrowed, his storm-colored eyes seemed to brim only with curiosity, not contempt.  Chiran stared back placidly, letting Ralof speak for them as he had since they left Riverwood.

            “I have come back to continue my service as one of the true sons of Skyrim,” Ralof began, “We have come a long way, Chiran and I.  He was in Helgen too.”

            “Aye, I recall him,” Ulfric nodded, eyeing the Khajiit up and down. “Destined for the chopping block as well.  It seems to me that everyone is branded a villain these days.”  He sat back in his rocky throne, eyes never leaving the cat. 

            “I have come to serve you in your campaign,” Chiran spoke finally, his voice husky from lack of use.  He lowered himself in the bow of the human-folk, which seemed customary and appropriate for the given situation.  “If you will have me.”

            “A cat in the Stormcloaks?” his bearskin-clad friend seemed dubious, his brows quirked out of curiosity.

            The Jarl of Windhelm held up a hand to silence his subordinate, leaning forward in his chair.  Eyes narrowed, the Usurper’s scrutinizing glare made Chiran felt as though he were being picked at and prodded by a set of invisible hands.  _He is judging me._ Chiran thought.  _But not in the way that the guards did at the gate._   _He wishes to see why a Khajiit wants to aid a Nord cause._ “Not many can say they escaped Helgen, and I am always looking for able fighters.  No doubt that you have enough reason to wage battle against the Empire, after what happened in Helgen,” Ulfric said after a moment, “If you fight for me with honor and integrity, I have no complaints.”

            “You have my thanks,” Chiran said in his raspy, cat-like voice, “I am Chiran of Elsweyr, and my bow is yours.” _Your uprising has torn Skyrim into pieces and has sown the seeds of chaos throughout the Empire._ The Khajiit smiled genially as Ulfric rose from his throne once more, a blade in his hand. _That is what this world needs; chaos.  Dissension.  The Empire kept things in order for too long, and it is their turn to crumble… the Thalmor with them._

            “Speak the words,” the man with the bear’s skin said, his chin lifted, “I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak... Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim. As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond, even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms. All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!”

            Chiran repeated the words, and Ulfric rested the blade on the Khajiit’s shoulder. “You are, henceforth, Chiran of the Stormcloaks, an unblooded soldier for now, but a true son of Skyrim nonetheless.”  The tiger rose from the ground, his orange eyes gleaming. “I will assign you both to Galmar Stone-Fist, and you will be stationed here for the time being.  However, for the remainder of the day, rest.  I have no need for exhausted and weary soldiers.”

            “My lord, I was going to ask you… What of the dragons?” Ralof asked, head lowered out of respect. “Is it true, what the legends say?”

            “The Greybeards spoke little of the dragons, though I’m certain they’re privy to certain things most of the public does not know.  I know the tales of Alduin the World-Eater, and I have heard he once claimed to be the son of Akatosh.” Ulfric admitted, but his voice was stern all the same.  There was something in his gray eyes, a type of emotion that Chiran wasn’t sure he could define.  Sadness, bitterness, and remembrance were mixed into the Jarl of Windhelm’s voice. “The dragons coming back signals the End Times.  No one knows where the dragons have been all of this time or why it is that they have returned now.”  

            “What will we do about them?” Ralof asked him.

            “We will fight them if they stand in our way,” Ulfric said simply, “That the dragon saved us in Helgen was an unintentional coincidence, a stroke of luck… maybe even a blessing from the gods.  Some may jest that I summoned them to save myself, but I did not.  Their arrival is a mystery to me as well.  If anyone would know, it would be the Greybeards, though they are not the type to share their secrets.” 

            “I understand,” Ralof said respectfully.

            _The Greybeards…_ Chiran mused to himself.  He didn’t know who they were or their significance, but if they knew where the dragons were from, he suspected they were a powerful, knowledgeable group.  In all honesty, the dragons were a source of interest to the Khajiit and nothing more.  If they made the road more perilous, then that was something he would deal with whenever it occurred.  They were a third party in the chess game between the rebels and the loyalists, and perhaps they would eventually become useful.  The chaos that the black dragon had caused in Helgen had been impressive, worthy of songs and tales, but what happened when they started coming out of the woodwork, like termites in an old wooden shack?  _They will destroy this province, if the Civil War does not._  But Chiran was not particularly worried.  _Chaos is the true order of things.  Life is an eternal struggle.  When the Empire is toppled, there will be more chaos, and one who understands life’s true nature will climb onto the crumbling throne._ A new order to replace the failing regime of Titus Mede II and his ancestors—Chiran was eager to see it occur. _Dragons or Stormcloaks, it will happen,_ the lithe tiger thought to himself, a smile letting the tips of his fangs become visible. 

            “Now, if you’re done chatting, I’ll take you to the smith,” Galmar said in his rumbling, bearlike voice.  The second-hand reminded the sniper of a dim-witted version of the Nord that had accompanied them out of Helgen, with his hook nose and crimson-painted face.  “That armor ill suits you, cat.  And I’m certain Ralof’s needs repairs.”

            “Aye, my helm was lost in the melee near Falkreath.  I’ll need a new one of those, at the least,” Ralof nodded, and followed Galmar down the long corridor.  Chiran took up the rear, though he cast a final look at Ulfric, who watched them go with silent contemplation written across his taut face.

            Galmar Stone-Fist led them out of the Palace of the Kings and into the light drizzle of snow.  The market place was to the right of the palace as they walked, weaving between tightly-knit gray stone buildings.  A small crowd had gathered in the cemetery, which rested in a pathway that Chiran would scarcely consider a street due to its narrowness.  A guard held a torch, urging the citizens to all back away from one of the grave markers, its words long eroded away.  “Oho, what’s this?” Galmar’s brow furrowed under his bearskin hood, and craned his neck to see what was the matter.

            “Someone’s been murdered!” a woman wailed in horror.

            “By the gods…” Ralof began.

            “It’s Susanna the Wicked!” the rasping voice of an old woman cried out, “The Butcher’s gotten her too.”

            “Quiet!  Quiet!  Everyone calm down while the Jarl’s guard looks into this!” the guard with the torch declared, shooing the gathering crowd away from the body.  This did not deter Galmar Stone-Fist, however, who pushed his way through to the body, eyes squinting.  Chiran and Ralof had no choice but to shuffle after him, the tiger feeling slightly displeased that they were being dragged into yet another triviality.  

            The corpse was freshly cut, the back exposed to the sky.  Each gash was deeply made, as though someone had been carving the woman up like a turkey before dinner. Bits of flesh hung limp about the body, as if peeled away and her back-bone was exposed.  As some of the locals wailed and shouted in a concoction of rage and horror, Chiran made a face at the smell, tail flicking apathetically. Galmar planted a boot on the body and rolled her over, though immediately regretted doing so.  Her face, perfect despite the bloodsplatter, was intact, her eyes closed.  Though her bosom was almost falling out of her low-cut vest, it was plain to see that her expensive golden jewelry was still adorning her corpse, clean and shimmering in the dim light.  A large gash was in her abdomen, deep as though something had dug a tunnel into her corpse.  Somewhere in the crowd, there was a gag and a retching noise.

            “Talos preserve us,” Galmar Stone-Fist muttered darkly, his thick brow furrowed.

            “Who saw who did this?” the guard demanded, waving the torch about in rage. “Were there any witnesses?”

            “I saw a strange fellow running away.  I didn’t see what he looked like,” a tanned Imperial spoke up, visibly shaken. “Oh gods, this is _horrible_.  The fourth one this month!”

            “I came too late,” an old woman clad in naught but a ripped tunic and pants, lamented, “The poor girl was bleeding out when I found her.  Didn’t get to see who did this.”

            “Damn,” Galmar swore, looking at the guard, “Report this to Jorleif, and make sure Helgird takes care of the girl.  We’ll need to double the guard each night, see if we can catch this monster.”

            “Aye, sir,” the guard nodded and the Galmar led Ralof and Chiran away. “Fourth this month?  Things have gotten worse.  First Friga Shatter-Shield, and now even Susanna the Wicked.  Bah, the Candlehearth Hall won’t be the same without her attitude and jiggling.”

            “Jiggling?” Chiran blinked, confused over his choice of words.

            “You know, when…” Galmar began, making a slight cupping motion near his chest before he sighed, “Ah, never mind.  We’re almost to the blacksmith.  Sorry you had to see that mess.”

             The marketplace was untouched by the murder, the stalls commencing their trade and the blacksmith hammering away on his anvil, shaping a blade of iron the best that he could.  A few people were shopping about the stalls.  A Nord man was buying vegetables and other foods at one store, while a Dunmer couple was eyeing a collection of rings on display at an Altmer’s shop.

            Galmar tried calling out to the smith a few times, but the brusque Nord seemed unable to hear him over the hammer striking the metal. Finally, a raven-haired woman nearby punched him in the shoulder roughly, shouting into his bearded face, “Oengul!  Galmar’s here!”

            Oengul War-Anvil rose from his seat, his face blackened from the smoke and grime.  He wiped it away with a soiled cloth nearby, fingering out a few knots from his wiry gray beard as he greeted the trio. “Been some time since one of Ulfric’s high and mighty officers came down to my humble forge,” Oengul clapped Galmar on the back. “What can I do for you?”

            “A new helm for Ralof and repairs to his chainmail ought to suffice,” Galmar responded. “A new set of armor for the cat here.  Make sure you cut a hold in the pants for his tail, eh?”

            “And leave holes in the helm for his ears, too, I’ll wager,” Oengul War-Anvil’s pale brown eyes widened, eyeing the tall Khajiit. “I’ll have to take measurements, I think. Most of our armor fits Nords, not… Other folk.” Chiran appreciated that he was at least trying to be polite, but something in his eyes betrayed him.  “Hermir, get the measuring tapes, eh?  We have a tall one, not much meat on his bones either.”

            The Nord woman who had chided him previously began rummaging through a satchel, pulling out a halfway un-wound tape, “Aye, I see ‘im, old man, it’s _you_ that’s going blind, not me.”

            “Quiet, you intolerable whelp,” Oengul snapped back, but it was all in jest.  He took the tape from her, “It’s a wonder I keep you as an assistant these days, all the sass I get.”  He beckoned Chiran forward, and as he began to measure the lengths of his arms, he spoke to Ralof, “That old armor is pretty done-in, I’d say.  Might be able to patch it up, might have to just make another set.  I’ll do it for half-price.”

            “Sounds fair enough, but only if you can’t fix it,” Ralof agreed, tugging the buckles to free his bracers.  Hermir helped him out of his chainmail, trying to hide a blush the entire time.  

            “Ulfric was wondering if you had started the sword he requested,” Galmar added, bushes above his eyes rising with inquiry. 

            “Aye, I have.  A few times, actually, but none are suitable for him,” Oengul War-Anvil replied with the shake of his head, “Had I the Skyforge here, I could give him a sword to put Queen Freydis’s to shame, but alas, Eorlund Grey-Mane has it all to himself in Whiterun.  I will keep trying, though.”

            Hermir and Oengul finished taking the measurements, and Oengul looked over the scribbled notes he’d taken with a slight frown, “Sure you can’t bulk up much?  You’re proportioned very… um… differently than what I’m used to.” But after a moment of careful consideration, Oengul War-Anvil concluded, “But it’s doable.  I’ll be sure to put ear slots in the helm too.  Make it more comfortable that way.”  He paused and added to Hermir, “Might want to consider making it scaled, with the open face.  His muzzle might not fit proper guard helms.”

            “Aye,” Hermir agreed.

            “You have my thanks,” Chiran replied, not entirely sure he even wanted a helmet to begin with.  

            “Would you like a new bow as well?” Hermir asked him, “That one’s a longbow, but it’s not made of good wood.  It’ll splinter if you’re not careful.”

            “A new bow might suffice,” Chiran admitted.  She was correct about the longbow he had taken during Helgen; it was a sufficient weapon for minor combat, but it was feeble compared to the one he had been given in Elsweyr.  S’krir’s bow had been made of a special type of wood so that it was nigh impossible to break, even with a well-edged sword.  He would not miss the one that had carried him out of Helgen.

            “We’ll have it done soon,” Oengul promised them, putting his thick and heavy gloves back on, “And tell Ulfric he owes me a cup o’ mead once I get this blade done for him.  Wasted a lot of ingots on this project o’ his.”

            “He owes a lot of people cups o’ mead,” Galmar retorted with a toothy grin.  The trio bade them both farewell, and as they passed by the cemetery, Chiran noticed the guards were cleaning off the bleak stone that Susanna had bled upon.  The putrid stench of death was still in the air, and he made a face, ears back in displeasure.  Though the Khajiit tried not to care about murders and the trifles of others, the murder in the streets did gnaw in the back of his mind. _If these murders continue, it will draw Ulfric’s attention from the war.  And we don’t need that,_ he reflected. _These murders will need to stop before the city will rally behind him._

            His tongue caressed his white maw, and he blinked, eyeing the blood splatter that painted the steps.  _I will keep my eyes open and my ears sharp for this killer,_ the Khajiit decided, resolve unwavering. _Ulfric is a means to an end.  But he is necessary._   All of the pieces were necessary.


	18. An Arrangement of Convenience - Part 1

_Knife_

 

            Whiterun was a distant memory of rolling golden hills, farmlands, and that appalling low-cut dress Knife had stolen from Gurdur.  She had sold the dress the following morning after paying Belethor’s shop a little visit after nightfall.  Her replacement outfit was a tunic of faded jade green and light-weight brown pants that fell to the ankle, matching her rugged boots nicely.  She had almost left the black cloak, but couldn’t resist it, so it, too, had ended up being taken.  Other things had gone suspiciously missing from Belethor’s shop that night, particularly a pouch of coin, a flawed diamond, a second steel dagger, the fangs of a saber-toothed cat, and some potions of healing.  Most of it had been sold at some point or another on the way from Whiterun to Riften.  Knife was especially glad to see the dress go.

            She did not encounter many people on her way, though she passed near Ivarstead and found a few nice baubles to sell later on, when she ran into another Khajiit caravan.  The felines had eyed her with slight suspicion, as human women that traveled by themselves were few and far between.  But they said nothing to her that was not on the lines of business.  Knife continued to the south, on a road that wound through the birch-ridden landscape and seemed to walk hand-in-hand with a clear water river.  

            At first, the Breton girl had enjoyed the Rift.  The flora had intrigued her at first- the birch trees with their colorful leaves had made her think of Cyrodiil. Someone had warned her that the road to the south was ridden with cutthroat bandits, but she saw none of their ilk either.  Knife preferred to think of any road being dangerous if you were a rather thin-built Breton woman.  She had preferred to keep her hood up for comfort’s sake, but when the first large spider had crawled into view, she had chosen to leave her hood down, so that it didn’t block her peripherals. 

            By the second spider she had seen from a distance (and had subsequently, avoided), Knife decided she no longer liked the Rift and wanted to go back to the grassy plains of Whiterun, even if its major town had been full of perverts.  At least the perverts didn’t have eight eyes and a penchant for eating people.  She moved quickly along the road, breaking into a sprint at some times when she heard something scattering through the leaves.  The deciduous forest didn’t allow there to be much of an underbrush but Knife was still paranoid, checking behind her as if to expect the Frostbite Spiders had amassed an entire army behind her. 

            Coming upon Riften’s gates from the south made Knife smile. _No more spiders!_ She almost declared aloud, quite cheery that she had finally reached her destination.  Though it was said that Riften was a town of haughty thieves and gang members, Knife had decided it was an ideal place to begin her “new start”.  If there were thieves there, it meant there was a handful of competition, which she didn’t necessarily mind.  Competition meant keeping one’s skills sharpened, and Knife was looking to hone and nurture her talents. 

            “Hold there,” a guard began as she approached.  His command shook her from her thoughts, and she stared at him, panic rising in her arms and nipping at her neck.  _He knows I’m a thief,_ she thought, but another part of her snapped back. _No, that’s illogical.  I haven’t stolen anything yet._   The Breton almost faceplamed at her own stupidity.

            “Me?” She asked, feigning innocence in her voice.  It almost sickened her how well she played the “young and naïve girl” role.

            “Before I let you in, you need to pay the visitor’s tax,” he continued on gruffly, sinewy arms folded across his broad chest.

            “ _Tax_?” Knife sputtered, suddenly relieved, “What’s the tax for?”

            The guard’s glare was obvious even behind his steel helm, “For the privilege of entering the city.  What does it matter?” His challenging tone rubbed her the wrong way, and the Breton frowned at him, brow furrowing.

            _Privilege of entering the city?  What kind of horse shit is this?_ She thought in annoyance, her green eyes narrowed as she began carefully, “This is obviously a shakedown.”  It was a leap of faith, but she went with her gut instinct, “Pretty pathetic attempt too, if you ask me.” She added, voice firm. _If you act like you know what you’re doing, then they’ll believe you.  Even if you don’t know._ It was the rule that had saved her sorry ass more than a handful of times.

            He let out a sigh, “All right, keep your voice down… You want everyone to hear you?” His hand went to a ring of keys at his hip, and he began to fetch them, “I’ll let you in, just let me unlock the gate.”  He walked over and unlocked the gate, adding over his shoulder, “The gate’s unlocked.  You can head inside whenever you’re ready.”

            Knife smiled sweetly at the guard as she passed him by, trying to hide her giddiness as she entered the city of Riften.  The city that greeted her was stacked upon itself, she noticed- everything made of timber and gray stone.  Barrels laid about, unguarded, while people roamed the streets, their conversations adding to the urban aura of the city.   Somewhere, an anvil was being hammered upon, and a merchant was crying out about their newest sale.  The gurgle of water beneath the city filled her ears as well, along with the chirping of birdsong.  

            She decided at that point, despite the spider-infested forests, Riften was pretty neat.  Knife took a few steps towards the heart of the city, still marveling at the architecture when a firm hand grasped her shoulder.  Starting, the girl turned, looking up into the soulless eyes of a tall, muscular man.  Her instincts told her to grab her daggers and slash at him, but she stayed her hand.  “I don’t know you,” his breath smelled of mold and decay as he growled into her face. “You in Riften lookin’ for trouble?” 

            “I’m…. I’m just passing through,” Knife replied quickly.

            “I don’t like you,” the man grunted, glaring holes through her as she backed away from him.

            “I don’t like you either, so I’m going to go now,” Knife replied, ducking away from the Nord man and scampering over a creaking wooden bridge.  The man didn’t follow her, and she counted her blessings for that.  She found herself in the midst of the marketplace, the bustle of the city reminding her of her hometown.  The Imperial City had always been full of life, but it would have swallowed Riften up in mere moments.  She smiled to herself, remembering the long sunny days spent with the beggars of the Waterfront, and dodging through the shadows of the market. _We’d all been in it together, back in the City.  I miss it,_ she thought. _No one seems to look out for each other in this place.  It’s kind of gloomy…_

            She looked at an Argonian, holding up golden trinkets in the sunlight as he spoke with a Nord woman.  Across the square, there was a Dunmer rummaging through his wares as if he was looking for something.  The fire from a smithy caught her attention as she scanned the marketplace, still carrying that nostalgic smile on her lips.

            A hand grabbed her shoulder again and Knife was certain the burly Nord man had come after her.  She gasped as she spun around, staring into unfamiliar eyes.  Though it was indeed, a Nord, it was not the same, rough-looking one from before. He was handsome, that was the first thing she noticed, a tad flustered.  His long hair was a pleasant brown with a hint of red, his facial hair cropped neatly as his fine blue overcoat.  “Running a little light in the pockets, lass?” He asked, voice calm and quiet.

            “I’m sorry, what?” Knife asked, edging away from him.  This Nord wasn’t as scary as the first, but he had crept up on her all the same.  She didn’t like it when people did that.

            “Your pockets… they’re a little low on coin.  I can tell,” He answered, releasing her and folding his arms.

            _How could he possibly know that?_ Knife thought accusingly, patting the pouch that she had slipped into her pocket.  _He’s right…_ Part of her thought with a sour frown. “How do you know?” She challenged, folding her own arms and glaring up at him with narrowed eyes.

            It didn’t deter him; if anything, his small smile seemed to ring of amusement, “It’s all about sizing up your mark, lass,” he rolled his shoulders with a smug shrug. “The way they walk, what they’re wearing.  It’s a dead giveaway.” She understood this, but tried to remain stoic.  She turned away from him, hand at the iron dagger at her hip.

            “My wealth is none of your business,” Knife replied coolly, fighting the flushed feeling that nipped at her cheeks.  This guy knew too much about her with just a gander.  She brushed a twig of light auburn hair from her eyes, before taking her first step to freedom from his company.

            “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, lass.  Wealth is my business,” the Nord man responded, still sizing her up as though she were a slab of meat.  Knife felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise and she turned to glance at him over her shoulder. “Maybe you’d like a taste?”

            Immediately Knife recoiled, brow furrowing, “What kind of girl do you think I am, sir?” She demanded, turning her body to face his and tossing her arms into a fold at her chest. “I’m not _that_ desperate for gold.”  As her anger boiled and rose, his confidence seemed to falter and shrink.

            The Nord had been unprepared for that statement, fumbling and resorting to shaking his head with a mirthful chuckle, “That’s… not quite what I meant, lass.”  It took a short moment for him to gather his thoughts together, and he explained in an even quieter voice, “I’ve got a bit of an errand to perform, but I need an extra pair of hands.  And in my line of work, extra hands are well-paid.” 

            Her eyes lit up as her free left hand patted her pocket.  The coins that jingled within made a small clinking sound, and her stomach gurgled with need.  Some of the money had been spent on food; on days she was too hungry to steal in broad daylight, she had decided to take the legal route to being fed.  _More cash wouldn’t hurt…_ She reasoned with herself, though, inwardly knew she needed another meal soon.  Though suspicion laced her voice, Knife inquired, “What do I have to do?”

            “Simple…” the Nord began, “I’m going to cause a distraction and you’re going to steal Madesi’s silver ring from a strongbox under his stand.  He’s the Argonian.” At the word _steal_ , her fingers twitched, a shiver of excitement running up her spine.  She leaned forward ever so slightly, staring at the tall man with almost childish eyes.  The stranger smiled, then continued, “Once you have it, I want you to place it in Brand-Shei’s pocket without him noticing.” 

            Knife tried to mask her excitement and failed miserably.  She tilted her head to the left, staring at the strange Nord with curiosity flowing from her jade eyes, “Why plant the ring on Brand-Shei?” If she had her hands on an expensive silver ring, she’d want to take it and run.  

            “There’s someone that wants to see him put out of business permanently.  That’s all you need to know,” came the cryptic answer. “Now, you tell me when you’re ready and we’ll get started.”

            “Well… I’m ready _now_. Let’s get this started,” Knife shrugged.

            A smile edged its way onto his thin lips.  “Good.  Wait until I start the distraction and then show me what you’re made of,” the Nord man replied.  As he walked away, his cries began to fill the air, “Everyone!  Everyone!  Gather ‘round!” He beckoned them over with the wave of his hands.  Knife shrank back into the crowd, staring at him as he worked his magic.  The stranger’s charisma was incredible, not faltering in the slightest as he took his position by one of the stalls. “I have something amazing to show you that demands your attention!” He declared dramatically, “Gather ‘round all!”

            Knife edged her way out of the crowd, slipping between the others as quietly as she could muster.  Being a Breton had its advantages at times—being short meant being easy to miss, especially in a crowd.  It also meant easy to trample upon, but Knife was one of those “silver lining” types of people.   She backed away towards Madesi’s stand, slyly glancing about the market.  The guards were gathered on the far end, a few muttering to each other and enjoying the show that the brown-haired Nord was holding for them all.  A few steps more and Knife ducked behind a series of crates, knee touching the stone as she crouched.

            “Gather ‘round all!” the Nord was still shouting as she pulled out her lockpicks and began to fiddle with the lock on the sliding door of Madesi’s stand.  It was a harder lock than what she was used to, and messed with it a few stressful moments before it yielded to her.  As she slid the door aside, the strongbox was the first thing in view. It came easier to her than the door did, and Knife opened it to find a small sum of gold, a ruby-red garnet, an amulet dedicated to Zenithar, and the ring-brimming silver without any gems.  _Disappointing,_ she thought as she looked at the ring.  Sure, it was shiny, but it was lackluster in décor.  _Okay, it’s not the fanciest thing in the world, I guess… makes me feel a little better about putting it in the guy’s pocket…_ She took the lot, pocketing the gold, amulet, and gem as a bonus to her reward, and kept the ring in the palm of her hand.  She shut the box and the door as quietly as she could muster, the Nord’s shouts still flooding the air.

            “Come on, Brynjolf, what is it this time…”

            “Patience, Bran-Shei.  This is a rare opportunity, and I wouldn’t want you to get left out.”

            “That’s what you said about the Wisp Essence and it turned out to be crushed nirnroot mixed with water!”

            “That was a simple misunderstanding, but this item is the _real_ thing!”

            Knife crept close to the small outer wall of the marketplace, ducking as a guard walked by on the other side.  She held her breath the entire time—too scared to even exhale loudly enough for someone to detect her lurking.  Each step was made with absolute caution, but she hastened to near Bran-Shei, who was situated upon a barrel in front of a stack of crates.  Knife made it to the other side of the crates, leaning against the wall and resting upon her knees.  Her arm extended to reach his pocket, but as he shifted, her arm shot back.  Nibbling viciously at her lip, she cast a look about the area once more before reaching out again.  Bran-Shei didn’t shift this time, and Knife dropped the silver ring into the back slit of his cloth work pants.

            As she moved away, fearful and silent, the Nord’s eyes met her own.  His lip twitched upward, his eyes gleaming with understanding as he announced, “Well, I see my time is up. Come back tomorrow if you wish to buy.”

            Quickly as it had gathered, the crowd dispersed into chaotic bumping and half-hearted “Excuse me”s.  Knife collided into the brawny chest of an Argonian, shot him a quick apology, and then scurried towards a wooden building near the marketplace.  Somewhere in the sky, a brief crackle of lightning lit up the evening, and Knife smelled the incoming rain.

            The brown-haired Nord seemed to materialize from nowhere, his eyes alight with the glee of a child. “Looks like I chose the right person for the job.  And here you go… your payment, just as I promised,” the Nord handed her a small sack of coins, the light jingling a pleasant sound to the Breton’s ears. “The way things have been going around here, it’s a relief that our plan went off without a hitch.”

            “What’s been going on?”

            “Bah. My organization’s been having a run of bad luck, but I suppose that’s just how it goes.”

            “Organization?” Knife asked carefully, brows raised. _Great, that’s all I need—joining a gang of some sort.  Getting all sorts of enemies…_ Her mind went back to the brawny Nord near Riften’s gates and she frowned heavily. “I’m not really looking to join a gang.”

            “I wouldn’t call it a gang,” the Nord said thoughtfully, “ _Organization_ is the word I said-- for a reason.  Besides, if you like that…” He jabbed a finger, lined with dirt, at the bag he had given her, “… there’s more where it came from…. If you think you can handle it, lass.”

            Knife marveled at the bag in her hand, feeling its weight in her palm.  Eyes flicking from the bag, to the Nord’s expectant face, then to the surrounding area, she leaned in closer, voice a bare whisper, “Do I get to steal things?”

            “Aye, lass.  All that your heart desires.”

             “I like you,” Knife concluded aloud, head bobbing up and down eagerly, “I’m interested in this… proposal, Mr… Ahhh….?”

            “Brynjolf,” the Nord finished with a satisfied smirk crowning his face.

            “Knife,” she thrust her petite hand out, looking up at him, “My name’s Knife!”  And before he could ask, “Yes, like the weapon.  No, my parents didn’t name me that, and yes, I do prefer being called it as opposed to my real name.”

            “Well then…” Brynjolf began, not bothering to hide his amusement, “Let’s put your interest and skill to the test.  The group I represent has its home in the Ratway beneath Riften… a tavern called the Ragged Flagon.  Get there in one piece and we’ll see if you’ve really got what it takes.”

            “You didn’t tell me _wha_ t organization you represent,” Knife observed in a matter-of-fact tone, catching him by the arm as he walked away.  He glanced over his shoulder at her, brows raised as he asked her.

            “Didn’t you know, lass?  It’s the Thieves Guild that owns the sewers and city of Riften.”

            She might have pestered him more, if the commotion hadn’t begun.  Madesi was shouting at Brand-Shei, the Argonian’s scaly brows rigid with anger.  A guard was walking over to break their argument up, growling threats at the two of them. Through his hissing voice, the lizard seemed to be accusing the Dunmer of something, and Knife decided to make herself scarce.  The closest thing she found was the local pub, a hanging sign declaring it was “The Bee and Barb”.

            The music within was loud enough so that the Breton could hardly hear herself think as she made for the barkeep, a pale Argonian woman with a hefty set of breasts and crimson eyes that put a Dunmer’s to shame. “Hello!” Knife began cheerily, hopping into a barstool. “I’m new.  Lookin’ for a job.  Got any interesting info?”

            “You’re certainly… peppy,” the Argonian remarked, but didn’t seem to mind all that much when Knife slid a gold coin from her pocket, onto the bar. “Not much news these days, though, I suppose the most interesting thing is that Jarl Laila Law-Giver threw in her lot with the Stormcloaks.  She’s the one that rules over Riften.  Or so it says on file.”

            “That sounds cryptic,” Knife remarked nonchalantly, letting the woman have the coin.

            “The Black-Briars are the ones that have the Thieves Guild in their pocket.  All of the Ratway folk are probably theirs.  I wouldn’t cross them if I were you.  Me?  I just run my business with Talen-Jei, and we keep our noses out of trouble,” the Argonian woman replied, “You should be warned that the Ratway has lots of cutthroats down there.  It’s the giant sewer that runs beneath the city. No good ever happens down there.”

            Knife thanked her for the information, giving her another coin.  She ordered a small goblet of something called Black-Briar mead and found it incredibly pleasant to drink before deciding to spend some of her hard-earned coin on some strips of fish filletsfrom the kitchen. She sat at the bar and munched on the meal in delight, looking about the lively tavern.  An Imperial woman leaned against the back wall, suspiciously letting her eyes dart about. Occasionally she would look at Knife, eyes narrowing slightly, but Knife tried to pay her no heed _._ An Imperial clad in the yellow garb of a mage was so drunk that Knife figured he would probably piss ale for the next week.  His loud cries and shouts seemed to be annoying some of the other customers, and eventually a male Argonian asked him to leave.

            A balding Breton man was hitting on a burly, long-haired Nord woman, who chased him off with some harsh words about his sleezy character.  Though his eyes drifted to Knife once or twice, she looked away, and that seemed to let him know that she wasn’t interested in what he had to say.  A few Dark Elves entered the tavern after awhile and ordered some shots.  When they began their competition, Knife decided to exit the tavern.  The noise was becoming unbearable, and one of the Nords was belting out some raggedy tune about a man getting his head cut off by some maid. She opened the door as a dark-haired woman was entering the tavern, muttering an apology before escaping the woman’s harsh dark eyes.

            Knife wandered the upper streets for awhile, watching the torchbugs as they glistened in the dying light of the sun.  Riften seemed like a simple enough town.  The keep located within it was called Mistveil Keep, as she soon discovered, and it was closely guarded by violet-clad soldiers and with metal helms that concealed their faces.  A temple to Mara was located nearby, and she watched a man and his bride leave the temple with cheers and hopeful gleams in their eyes as their friends and family looked on.  She wandered by a cemetery, looked at the statue of Talos that loomed nearby, and found herself listening to the music of the sunset in the fisherman’s city.

            She found her way onto the lower decks of Riften, the boardwalk creaking under her light feet.  The Breton saw nothing in the lower half of Riften but a few worn-down shops and a giant barred door that seemed to lead into the maw of darkness. _The Ratway, I would imagine._ She recalled Brynjolf’s proposition, and though the Argonian had given her good enough advice about being careful, the tavern visit had been for eating and resting after her journey. _Thieves steal,_ she concluded as she opened the door. _They just can’t help it._

The stench made her almost regret entering the sewers entirely, but the Ratway was bigger than she had anticipated it would be.  She had envisioned a claustrophobic nightmare with bad smells galore and maybe even a few starving skeevers.  But that was not the case, and Knife found herself creeping through the winding tunnels with her cloak drawn over her shoulders.  The damp halls did not frighten her after the first few minutes, and soon her nostrils became accustomed to the perfume of shit and piss.  She dodged the water that trickled through as much as possible, the liquid a questionable color and the noise of splashes loudly in the quietness of the tunnel system.

            A shrill cry in the darkness caused her to start, her daggers drawn with speed she didn’t know she had within her.  She kept them out, though pulled her arms into the cloak sleeves a bit to conceal their glinting blades.  The murmuring of voices startled her, but she clung to the shadows, her breath caught in her lungs as she snuck past.  Whoever was speaking was far enough away that the words weren’t discernible, and the Breton was thankful for that.  She wove her way through the tunnels, picking random directions in hopes it would take her to her destination.  The tunnels all looked the same—that was the problem, but eventually she was spilled into a dark room with a table.

            It was silent in the room, and the emptiness startled her.  There were sleeping mats, but no bodies to occupy them, so she took that as a warning to be extra careful as she proceeded.  Knife passed into the next room, another empty space, then wound through a tunnel, into an area where light streamed down from the ceiling.  Rats shrieked into the darkness, their cries echoing forever through the complicated system. _Why did Brynjolf make me navigate this by myself?_  Knife thought sourly. _This isn’t a test, this is STUPID!_ She just hoped no spiders were down in the depths of the labyrinthine sewers.

            An axe sat in the midst of the light, embedded in a tree stump.  She was surprised to see vegetation.  But she was more surprised by the hulking Imperial that barreled out of the shadows, fists swinging.  An incoherent snarl erupted from his mouth, which was ripped and shredded with scars.  Eyes ablaze in silent, primitive fury, the man swung at her.  She could scarcely tell a thing about him as she ran, moving to the side and her mind thinking of the caverns under Helgen.

            _“You killed one of those Legion men.  I remember. It was during the escape.”_ The memory of the bandit was laughing at her in the darkness as the man whirled upon her, fists in a fury of silent wrath. But the Breton was quicker, her knives still in hand and her fear setting her blood on fire. She had not liked to think about killing the Legionnaire in the caverns, but all she could see was his face as he gurgled out blood one last time, his own blade falling from his hand.  Knife jabbed the daggers at her attacker, moving low to dodge the fists from the titan of a man.

            Somewhere in the darkness, a high-pitched laugh resounded in the tunnels at the very same time her daggers found his abdomen in sync. He had been flailing in madness since he had tried to kill her, and he flailed more, one of his fists striking her across the face and almost knocking her silly. She landed with a thud in the sole beam sunlight, the brightness making her squint.  There was a terrible thump and the sound of haggard breathing ended.  She sat a moment, dazed as she looked upward, then let her fingers conjure up a small flame. Extending the light to see what had become of her unknown assailant, she saw that the daggers had done him in, both embedded upward, points jabbing somewhere into his chest. Knife shuddered as she pulled them out, making a face as she wiped the blades with part of his pant leg then hurried on her way.  

            She fumbled in the darkness before she found the light once more, and pushed her way through a barred door, relieved that it swung open.  A boardwalk was situated above the water, and the Breton girl picked her way across with great care, her jaw throbbing from where he had struck her.  At the other side of the boardwalk was a tavern, and Knife had to blink a few times to make sure she was seeing things correctly.

            “Lass…” Brynjolf was sitting at the bar, hand wrapped around a mug of something warm, but his eyes were wide as apples with shock. “You look like you’ve seen quite a bit since I last saw you.”

            Knife supposed killing someone had made her look a tad bit frazzled and she brush back her auburn bangs with a hand, exhaling with a shudder, “Did you know…” She began, swallowing back some of her nerves. “Did you know you have _crazy people_ in your sewers?” Because, as far as she knew, that was just not normal. 


	19. An Arrangement of Convenience - Part 2

_Hjalmar Bearblood_

_Bandit King_

 

            Windhelm was not typically a bandit’s first choice for an adventure. Its crumbling walls were impenetrable and its guards more than vigilant since the dawning of the rebellion.  But Hjalmar Bearblood strode towards the strikingly gray city with little fear in his heart.  Dagir Blade-Maker was to his left, though his status was scarcely that of a blacksmith, he was still a formidable sight with his hulking muscles.  The sea-birthed gale tickled the Bandit King’s mahogany beard, and little brushed back Dagir’s dark mop of hair.  Kelda was not far behind her leader, skin aglow with something Hjalmar had never seen before.  She seemed to have more confidence in her step since their coupling, and though it brought a smirk to the bearish Nord’s face, it also brought intrigue.

            _She’s just another woman.  Like Siv and Nessa and all the others,_ he was still telling himself as his snow-covered boots hit the stone of the bridge to Windhelm.  As Hjalmar expected, he took about five steps before the guards approached, axes in hand. “Halt!  You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people, bandits!” Declared one of the helmed sentinels, his voice gruff with biting anger.

            From the corner of his eye, he saw Eitri War-Hawk notch an arrow to his bow, but the Bandit King held up a hand to stop him. “We are here for an audience with the Jarl of Windhelm, my dear cousin, who has returned to the Eastmarch after quite the harrowing experience, I’ve been told.” His almond eyes glistened with childish amusement.

            The guardsman bristled, “The only audience you’ll be having is with the cell and the gaoler, Bearblood!” A few other guards were beginning to make their way over, each with an axe or mace in hand.  Hjalmar’s hand twitched with desire to grab the greatsword at his back, but he resisted.

            “You will not arrest us,” he said, softer this time, “My Blood Raiders wish to join the Stormcloaks.” This caused a stir among his own crew, and he heard Sveinn gasp lightly. Dagir’s eyes hardened, but he said nothing, mouth crooked in a scowl.

            “Are you mad?” another guard scoffed, “Ulfric Stormcloak will never allow a scumbag like you into his ranks.”

            “I think that is a matter for the Jarl to decide, don’t you?” Hjalmar shot back, his impatience evident. “Take us to your Jarl, and if he decides to imprison us, I will go quietly.”

            “The word of a bandit does us no good.  You are wanted for high crimes against the province, Bearblood,” a third guard, a woman, sneered at him. “Dozens of counts of murder, thievery, not to mention bringing brutal violence to the hold and kidnapping its citizens!”

            “Yes, I’m quite aware of my previous actions,” Hjalmar confirmed with a nod, “Well, if you won’t let us in, at least send Ulfric out to meet us.  I think he should be hospitable and greet his guests.”

            One guard paused to consider this, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the Blood Raiders. “If you pass through the city, you will need to forfeit your weapons.  We will not bind your hands, but you will come with us and you will not make a move to hurt any of the citizens.” Hjalmar agreed to this, unsheathing his sword and handing it to the closest guard.  He oversaw his bandits give their weapons to the guards, arms folded.  Sveinn seemed distraught that his bow was being taken, but the Bandit King furrowed his brows at the lad, who stiffened his lip and relinquished his weapon. Kelda reluctantly gave away her daggers and axe, a frown on her rosy lips.  She snuck a look at her leader and he pretended not to notice, mostly for his own sake.

            When the guards were finished, they did not sheathe their weapons.  Instead, the company of red-painted warriors was led into the city, kept at the point of blades and axes alike.  Hjalmar kept his head held high as they paraded him through the gates.  There were people about the streets, but they all paused to watch.  A beggar woman’s eyes narrowed at the lot of them, her face lit up by a nearby brazier.  Dressed in scaled armor, a bald man stared at them, eyes squinting as if trying to discern if he recognized them or not.  An Altmer woman stared at them, golden eyes wide in shock.

            _How many of these people have I stolen from?_ Hjalmar wondered to himself, arms to his sides.  He had picked particularly regal attire for the day’s events.  The armor he wore was some of his best; steel armor with a giant metallic buckle with bear claws adorning it.  His bearskin cape was snug about his shoulders, and his bracers matched his grey breastplate.  The Bandit King wanted to look his best for the meeting.

            The Palace of the Kings was everything that Hjalmar remembered it being from his childhood.  Though he had lived in Ivarstead for some time, his father had eventually moved the family south of Windhelm.  Ivarstead brought them little business as farmers, mostly because the town was flooded with farmers. There had been seven children total, and that was a lot to feed.  When his father complained about all of the mouths that needed food each night, Hjalmar had often wondered why his parents had chosen to breed so much.

            “If anyone moves to hurt the Jarl and I will gut them,” hissed the guardswoman into Hjalmar’s ear.  The voice rang a familiar bell in the back of his mind, but the Bandit King couldn’t place it.  He glanced at her, but her face was concealed by a thick, heavy helm.  Though he frowned, the burly Nord said nothing to her in response—inclining his head to acknowledge that he had heard her.

            The doors to the palace opened with a crash and Hjalmar walked with every ounce of confidence that he could muster.  Ulfric was discussing something with his steward, but rose as the company reached the halfway mark in the hall.  Furry coat strewn over his lean shoulders, the Jarl looked like a bear, his mane of yellow hair combed so that it fell back down his neck, and his voice like thunder as he demanded, “What is the meaning of this?” Anger wasn’t in his voice, only confusion.

            “The Blood Raiders, my lord,” a guard bowed upon their approach, “They have come to turn themselves in.”

            “No,” Hjalmar corrected the guard, his voice like iron in the ancient corridor of feasting and kings. “I am here to join your cause.” His painted face lifted, almond eyes grinning with knowing as he stared at Ulfric.

            But the Jarl’s storm eyes seemed to darken with thought.  “So you live as well,” Ulfric Stormcloak mused aloud, itching at his facial hair. “And you’ve come to pledge your service to… _my_ cause?  I would have thought the Imperials would have been a more ideal master for you.  They seem to favor bloodshed as much as you do.”

            “I am a Nord,” Hjalmar declare in his deep, bearlike voice. “And I am a son of Skyrim.  I have come here to give you a proposition, Jarl of Windhelm.  At least hear it out before you decide to free my head from my neck.”

            “Go on,” Ulfric sat in his throne, his eyes like a hawk’s as he scrutinized the painted bandits in his palace.

            “Only half of the Jarls have approved of your cause, and that is not enough to drive out the Empire,” Hjalmar said confidently, “This war has barely begun and you have a decent-sized army.  Aye, it’s true that you’re a force to be reckoned with, but the Empire’s forces are _bigger_.  You will need aid if you are to win this campaign.  I am offering my blade to your cause, as well as the blades of my Raiders.”

            “And what use would the blades of bandits and vagabonds be to me?” Ulfric asked, voice cool with contempt.

            “We are pillagers, cousin, we have seen battle,” Hjalmar said with the fleetest of smiles, “Permit us to aid you.  We will do what your army may not; we will wreck havoc upon the Legion.  We will take their children and women.  We will burn their food and slaughter their horses.  We will stalk their caravans in the mountains, assault their wagons, and disperse in the mountains, as we know how to.  Let us fight for you, cousin, so that we can rid Skyrim of the oppressors for good.”

            “Privateers,” Ulfric commented with a bitter chuckle, “You wish to be a privateer upon the land, do you?”

            “Aye, and we will stay our blades against Stormcloak supporters,” Hjalmar vowed, a clasped hand over his heart.

            “We may lose supporters if it is known that Hjalmar Bearblood is a friend to the Stormcloaks,” remarked Galmar Stone-Fist, who stood to Ulfric’s right side.  Hjalmar’s eyes narrowed at the subordinate. _He’s an old warrior, that one.  His name is famous in the land.  A Legionnaire hero, back in the Great War._

            “It need _not_ be known,” Hjalmar began with a step forward.  Galmar toyed with the hilt to his warhammer, dark eyes narrowing with suspicion.  With a second thought, Hjalmar backed a step, nibbling at his lip with thought. “This could be a contract forged without paperwork.”  The Bandit King preferred it that way, in the least.  Contracts were so binding and the fancy words seemed to have a tighter grip than chains.

            Ulfric toyed with his well-trimmed beard, his storm eyes distant in contemplation. He stepped down from his throne, still enveloped in reflection, his mouth slightly agape. “ _Any_ way of hassling the Imperials is a step in the right direction.  We are outnumbered in soldiers, ‘tis true,” the Jarl confessed, but his voice was as firm with resolve as ever. “I will accept your offer on the condition that you never again pillage the lands of the Eastmarch.”

            “I can accept that,” Hjalmar replied with a respectful nod but he disliked the smugness about the Jarl’s face.  _He has something planned,_ realized the Bandit King, and he waited with a handful of dread in his stomach, feeling it swim about his abdomen like slaughterfish.

            “Then it is settled,” Ulfric announced loudly, eyes still shimmering with thought.  A smile seemed to play about his lips as he continued, “You will go to the Reach and you will look into a matter that my spies have brought to me.” Hjalmar’s brows rose.  _The Reach…_ It was a land even his Blood Raiders had not touched.  The rocky mountains carried nests of bandits there as it were, and Hjalmar preferred the biting cold as opposed to climbing steep cliffs.

            Ulfric never took his steel eyes from the Bandit King, his voice even and smooth, “It is rumored that murders have been abundant in the streets of Markarth.  There are even more rumors that these murders are tied with the Forsworn.  Years ago, I fought against these Reachmen, who have blended barbarianism with magic.  They are a force to be reckoned with… and so is their leader.”  Memories and nostalgia were in his voice, and Hjalmar remembered that his cousin had been sent there sometime after the Great War.  _He led the assault against the feral Reachmen and he was the one to silence their rebellion.  They scattered into the mountains, biding their time with vengeance in their hearts._ The Thalmor had tried to snuff them out as well; their primal religion disgusted the elves.  Even though their leader had been removed, the Forsworn remained in their tightly-knit bands, raiding caravans and murdering the weak.

            “I recall what happened, aye,” Hjalmar began, “Madanach, the King in Rags.  I heard he was slain in battle by your hand.”

            This warranted a rueful scoff.  “Another Thalmor lie,” The Jarl sounded somewhere between irate and amused simultaneously. “No, he was captured.  And I should think he would be where I left him,” Ulfric Stormcloak remarked, “Go there, and undo my work, if that is the case.  Strike a deal with the King in Rags and return here when you are done.”

            _He’ll have me chase after a man that has been thought to be dead for years_ , Hjalmar thought grimly, but the plan was logical.  _The Forsworn together are an army that knows the mountains of the Reach.  The Thalmor do not and neither does the majority of the Legion.  They will be able to wreck chaos in the ranks and aid our cause greatly. The Reach has not sworn itself to his banner.  If he can somehow arrange for the Jarl to be ousted… Yes, he could put one of his own in charge of Understone Keep.  Or use them as pressure for the Reach to join the Stormcloaks…_ “It is a strange plan you have, but there is sense to it,” Hjalmar of the Blood Raiders answered. “ _The enemy of my enemy is my friend_.  If this is what it will take to convince you, I will go forth and perform this errand.”

            Ulfric’s beard twitched about his smug smirk, “Then go and do what I have asked.  But if you fail, do not return here again, Hjalmar Bearblood.” He turned to look at Galmar Stone-Fist, “Now, I’ll hear what you have to say about the murder in the streets. It’s high time something was done about those.”  There was dismissal in the Jarl of Windhelm’s voice, and Hjalmar took that as his sign to leave.

            “Aye,” Galmar lowered his head respectfully.  The Bandit King turned and strode away from his cousin, a smile of his own twitching about his lips.  In silent reluctance, the hold guards followed the Blood Raiders from the long feasting hall, Hjalmar at the head of the group.

            Kelda grabbed him by the arm lightly, hissing, “What do you think you’re doing?” She sounded upset and Hjalmar looked down at her, quirking a brow at the honey-haired bandit as he pushed the massive doors open. “He wants you to _die_ doing this, you know that, right?”  A light snowfall greeted them as they stepped out into the brisk day.  Hjalmar might have taken another step but Kelda cut him off, her hands folded over her chest and her hazel eyes afire with defiance.

            “I know,” He said finally, his Nord accent thick on his tongue.  When the Bandit King stepped around her, she let out a growl of frustration.  The guards awkwardly did nothing to intervene between them, and the rest of the Blood Raiders remained quiet.  Hjalmar feared if they spoke, Kelda’s words would cut them worse than her dagger.

            “So you’re going to charge in and get yourself killed all for the sake of _Ulfric Stormcloak_?” Kelda spat, “What the hell happened to you in Helgen?  I thought you were the Bandit King, not the _Slave_ King.”

            “I hate to interrupt this beautiful moment, but… I agree with the lady,” Liuflr spoke up, his voice like iron, “Why is it that we are joining the Stormcloaks?” He sounded brave but under Hjalmar’s dark gaze, the black-haired Nord seemed to wither. Fumbling about as they approached the gates of Windhelm, the bandit managed, “I’m fine with it, my lord, but I am… curious…”

            “I spoke to you of the dragons, didn’t I?” Hjalmar said as the guards let the gates open for them.  A glance over his shoulder and the Bandit King saw Liuflr nod quietly.  Nevertheless, Hjalmar Bearblood paused the conversation, receiving his greatsword back upon leaving the gates and strapping it back onto his broad torso.  As the others armed themselves, the guards watched them like hawks, fingers caressing their weapons as if waiting to unsheathe them.  _They will have to remain disappointed…_ thought the burgundy-haired Nord with a rueful smirk.  Once his group’s weapons had been relinquished from the blue-clad soldiers, Hjalmar led them away, across the stone bridge which they had crossed previously.

            “So out with it,” Koli spoke for the first time since the meeting with the Jarl, his mane of raggedy ginger hair dancing in the whipping gale. “Kelda and Liuflr are right to be concerned.  And so am I.”

            “The dragons signal the End Times,” Hjalmar turned to look at them all, his painted face grim. “When Alduin World-Eater arises from his slumber, we will have many more things to worry about than bounties and stealing.  That will be a problem for all to face.  Dragons are the children of Akatosh—they are demi-gods and they will devour us all if we do not act.” He looked at the river below them all—halfway frozen with its surface broken into giant shards.

            “Ulfric is the only one that can understand this.  His time with the Greybeards has taught him much.  He may be the one who leads the war against the dragons.  The Jarls are puppets and children playing at politics.  They know nothing but the comfort of their cushioned chairs.” Hjalmar continued in his grumbling, bearlike voice, “The general the Legion has brought is a stranger to this land and its lore.  He does not understand because he is ignorant, and his ignorance will kill him.  Ulfric has the ability to unite Skyrim and his knowledge may save it from a fiery fate.”

            His lost gaze turned to an impish smile, “I could give a speech that lasted a fortnight on why the Thalmor are reason enough to join the Stormcloaks.  But I will save your ears and my breath on the matter.  You all know by now that the elves are meaning to march on all of Tamriel once more.  It is a fact, as certain as Massar and Secunda are in the sky each night.  This is a temporary truce.  They say we are under a peace treaty?  Treaties only last so long.”

            “Every knows the Thalmor are just toying with the Empire,” Kelda agreed, “But this talk of dragons… Hjalmar, are you even certain that these legends speak the truth?”

            “I believe in the Old Way and in the old stories,” Hjalmar said firmly, “Whether or not you do, that doesn’t matter to me. You can walk away now, you can come with me, or you can end up like Fraener.  Your choice, but choose _now_.”  When no one said anything, Hjalmar grunted and turned to keep walking.

            The rest of the world had begun to follow the Divines and Hjalmar laughed at them all.  Faith was bought so easily that it sickened him.  His parents had taught him the old gods, the true divinities of Skyrim.  When he had been a child, he had learned to memorize them by their symbols.  Each night, he would lie in bed and he would chant to himself, “Moth—Dibella… wolf—Mara… Owl—Jhunal…Bear—Stuhn… Whale—Tsun… Fox—Ysmir… Snake—Shor… Hawk—Kyne… Dragon—Alduin…” Over and over again, the young Hjalmar would repeat the words, until his little brothers and sisters would hush at him to be quiet.

            “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh,” Kelda didn’t approach him until their first break, along the Yorgrim River.  He scarcely paid her apology any heed as he sharpened his blade.  She had exasperation upon her breath, “This is different than what we’re used to.  Most of us don’t know a damned thing about politics.”

            “This is not about politics, Kelda,” Hjalmar said softly, “This is about survival.”

            Kelda watched him work with her curious, golden-flecked irises, but vanished after a few minutes.  Hjalmar led them onward with a vigorous march. Though Sveinn complained that his feet hurt, Hjalmar only suggested to him to find better boots.  Nightfall came swifter than the Bandit King could have liked, and he found himself staring into a fire soon after the sun vanished.

            They had chosen a grove away from the road, nestled by the water and in the shelter of pine trees.  The underbrush was thin, and the firelight cast beautiful lights upon the rippling surface of the pond nearby.  Hjalmar sat in the grass, his fingers weaving themselves through the soft blades.  Kelda cooked a stag that she and Sveinn had brought down, a good portion of its torso stuck through a pole and roasted over the flames.  The smell made Hjalmar’s stomach growl, though he preoccupied his mind with the fireflies dancing around the grove.

            Koli strummed a lute that he had once taken off the corpse of a bard and the ginger-haired Nord began to hum a deep tune. Dagir Blade-Maker sat next to Hjalmar, wiping his palms on his soft pants. “I’ve known you awhile, Hjalmar,” Dagir admitted to him after a moment’s respite. “And you’re not one to so easily bow your knee. Even to a man like Ulfric Stormcloak.”

            “You were not at Helgen, Dagir,” Hjalmar said sternly, “Do not try to dissuade me from this path.” His eyes never left the pond.

            “I am not,” Dagir shook his head, “But I am encouraging you to think before you go forth with this.  Madanach has been kept “dead” for so long.  Where will he be?  The Jarl of Markarth is Igmund.  He is in the Thalmor’s pocket worse than even Elisif.  If you think you can waltz into that city and come out without a hefty price on your head…”

            “I have a hefty bounty in half the holds in Skyrim,” Hjalmar laughed, “If you think that this scares me… You are wrong.”

            Dagir Blade-Maker shook his head, “Think, Hjalmar.  If Jarl Igmund has kept Madanach dead for so long, where could he be?  Deep within Understone Keep, I would imagine.  Or perhaps somewhere locked away, safe from prying eyes.  We will have to be cautious.”

            “I am always cautious,” Hjalmar replied to the blacksmith and Dagir left him to his thoughts.  He exhaled into the night, looking up at the twin moons Massar and Secunda, and ran his hands through his burgundy mane. _When this is all over,_ thought the Bandit King to himself, old wound from Fraener’s blade twitching with irritation. _Perhaps it would be in my best interests to cease banditry._ It was a thought that had never come to mind before, and it almost startled him. _I am not young, but I am not old either.  I am savage… yet civilized more and more these days.  The thought of a cabin in the woods begins to sound more appealing each rise of the sun.  The thought of a wife to cook me meals is an even better thought.  And perhaps children…_ Hjalmar closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of the water and wind. 

            Once he had sat and thought of all of the places he would travel to with his band; thinking of all of the riches they would find, how he would become rich.  The folk of the Eastmarch had tokened him the Bandit King after a particularly gruesome raid, and since then, Hjalmar supposed he had been just that.  He had painted his wake with crimson, and that was all the Eastmarch folk would ever see him as.  Sure, other holds knew his name… but names could be cast aside so easily.  When he closed his eyes, he no longer saw the riches in his hands—he saw Kelda, just the way she had been when he had returned with her honeyed hair in ringlets falling down her back.  Hjalmar could see her curves, almost feel them under his palm, and he could smell her sweet perfume about her nape. But he cut the thought off there, shaking his head and blinking away the image. 

            _Gods preserve me.  I think I’m growing soft as I grow older._


	20. An Arrangement of Convenience - Part 3

_Ailonwe_

 

            The ring was beautiful on her finger, a diamond embedded in gold.  She had agreed with Farys to only purchase one ring that would serve for the engagement and ceremony until they could gather more money.  Though it was certainly plain in comparison to the ring her mother worn, Ailonwe still treasured it, holding her hand close to her chest as she walked, letting her fingers thread themselves through the Amulet of Mara she had been given.  

            Farys had been forced to put off their wedding for a little while—a day or so’s delay, and Ailonwe couldn’t say she minded truly. It gave them enough time to plan a few things—guests, flower arrangements, and who would perform the ceremony.  Tulvur had been willing to give Farys a break for their honeymoon, and Ailonwe had been grateful.  Her fiancée had come to her the night before with plans to take her to a cabin somewhere between Winterhold and Windhelm.  A cabin wasn’t a luxury suite, but Ailonwe was comforted by the fact that he was at least trying to make this work.  The engagement had turned her into a meek and quiet girl, especially around the hawk-nosed man she was supposed to be wedded to.  She did well to remember her manners—if he offered something to her, she was polite about her answer, often fighting to see the good in her impending nuptials.

            But smiling nicely and nodding her head was getting to be irksome.  He worked most of the day at the farm, and though he did spend much time trying to appease her, most of his efforts reflected his social status.  His choices in dresses, his choice in food, his choice in flowers, even, were meager and sad, like the bleak house that he dwelled in.  It was stifling some days, so Ailonwe strove to escape the stone rooms and cold hearth.  She struck out into the marketplace despite the cold one afternoon, wrapped in a soft violet jacket with rips and a few patches.  

            She had convinced Farys to let her pick out her dress by herself, if only because it was ill-luck in the southern lands for a man to see his fiancée in her dress prior to the wedding.  Ailonwe had found a few decent shops to buy from, though most of the dresses were beyond her budget by a landslide.  She found a particularly nice ivory dress at Revyn Sadri’s shop.  He was a friend of Farys’s, but promised to keep the details of the dress a secret after she decided to buy it.  

            She was aglow in the Gray Quarter as she walked back towards her to-be-household, clutching her prize with her slender and elegant fingers.  A slight bounce was in the girl’s step, her hair brushed back by the wind as she made her way down the bleak street, passing a handful of other Dunmer citizens.  Ailonwe didn’t see the Nord until he was upon her, his grimy hands grabbing at her bag.

            “What’s this, eh?” he demanded, eyeing the dress as he tore it from her bag.  He was a man of his thirties at the least, a cap over his straw-colored hair and his eyes the color of dark sapphires. The Dunmer girl gasped, covering her mouth with a hand as he unfurled the dress, hands clumsy and dirt-ridden. “A nice little dress, eh?  Ooh, it’s all white and soft, too.” He brushed it over his scraggly chin, a drunken grin on his features.  Even from a foot or two away, the stench of alcohol reeked from his breath, and Ailonwe made a face. “Maybe you should put it on.” The Nord suggested roughly to her, throwing it into her hands. “Yeah, hey Agrenor, don’t you wanna see this little slut put the dress on?”     

            His equally drunk friend, a bald man with black scruff about his jawline, wobbled over, mead stains on his brown tunic.  The second Nord, Agrenor, hiccuped loudly, rubbing at his bristles.  “It’d be nicer on her than those rags she has on now.  What’s wrong with you, girl?  Don’t you want us to see how pretty you are, eh?” 

            “Um… I… I can’t…” Ailonwe stammered, clutching the dress to her chest as though it were a child.  “Please leave me alone…” She backed away from the two of them, a twig of ebony hair falling into her ruby eyes. “I have a fiancée.”  It was a vain attempt to get them to see the picture.

            “A fiancée?” the first Nord sputtered into her face, and Ailonwe wiped a glob of saliva from her cheek. “Probably fucking one of the Thalmor, I bet.  You a spy, girl?  You here to spy on us Nords?”  Her back hit the wall and she felt the fires of fear lace their way through her veins.  Heart pumping, the Dunmer’s fingers tightened around the fine dress. “The Thalmor are elves.  The Dunmer are elves... I bet you’re all working together to take away Skyrim’s freedom.  Maybe I should round up a few men, and take some prisoners to interrogate.  We don’t want your kind here.”

            “I’ll interrogate her,” Agrenor began towards her, grabbing her wrist and jolting her forward.  She wasn’t sure if she screamed, but it came to mind that it was a good way to get the attention of the guards.  What she did remember was that her seized hand began to swirl with flames.  The dress fell into the snowy ground, and the Dunmer released the glow that pulsed within her chest.  Tendrils of fear and rage shot through her arms and she felt a burning sensation at her fingertips.  

            The fire swirled around Agrenor, and he shrieked in response, falling backwards onto his rear.  His sleeve was alight in a blaze that lit up the streets of Windhelm, and Ailonwe staggered back, mouth torn open in horror. _What have I done?_ It was just like the time near Falkreath, when they had been caught up in the squabble between the Stormcloaks and the Legionnaires.  She had seen the flames devour the man’s face, his shrieks in the air silenced by an eventual, agonizing death. _They’ll kill me for this,_ feared the Dunmer girl as the first Nord rounded on her, his friend whipping off his tunic and trying to stamp the fire out.

            “I’ll fuck you up, you stupid whore!” snarled the wheat-haired man, his yellowed teeth bared in an animalistic snarl.

            He grabbed her, the putrid smell of sweat and alcohol filling her nose.  She cried out for help, and help came in the form of a blue-clad guards woman.  “Rolff Stone-Fist!” declared the man, “By order of the Jarl, stop right there!  What do you think you’re doing?”

            “Brynja, this bitch burned Agrenor’s arm!” Rolff declared loudly, and by now, Ailonwe saw the crowd that was beginning to form.  She trembled near the wall, pressing her hands against the rough stone and biting back the stinging tears that threatened to fall. _No… No…_ she told herself. _I must not cry, it is not ladylike…_ But her thoughts turned sour. _Burning that man wasn’t very ladylike either…_ She should have tried to use words to reason with him.  Anything but violence… _I am not a savage, I am better than that, I am the daughter of Count Skingrad and the descendent of Halia Kevarathi.  I am better than that…_ She chanted inwardly, but the tears still trickled down her thin cheeks.

            “Because you tried to grab her, and Azure knows what else!” Revyn Sadri declared, “I saw the whole thing from my shop!” 

            “Rolff, this is the third time in the past week,” Brynja, the guards woman, shook her armored head, “I’m going to ask that you come with me.  Agrenor too, now that he’s put out the fire.”

            “I think you forget who my brother is, woman,” Rolff protested.

            “I don’t care if your mother is Kyne herself, you broke the law and you’re going to pay for it,” Brynja said harshly, grabbing Rolff by the wrist. “Agrenor, don’t make me come after you as well.  You’re heading to the Palace of Kings and we’re all going to have a talk with the Jarl.”

             As she led them both away, Farys found her, his eyes wide with shock. No words escaped him, but his thin arms threw themselves around her.  She let him hug her, her shaking hands clasping his tattered tunic and drawing him closer to her.  “Are you hurt?” he asked her, but the only thing she could do was let the dam break.  She sobbed into his shoulder, forgetting herself and the strict manners that her mother had taught her.  _Ladies aren’t supposed to sob in public,_ her mother’s harsh voice was lost in the sounds of the girl’s weeping, and Farys stood there, letting her dampen his tunic with her tears.

            She heard conversation buzz around her, but it all fell on her deaf ears.  “I… I burned him,” Blubbered the teen, her eyes puffy from her sorrows as she looked up at her fiancée, whose feeble arms shielded her from the prying eyes of passerbys. “I didn’t m-mean to…”

            “They were going to hurt you,” He sounded surprised, “There’s no need for apologies, Ailonwe…”

            “It wasn’t right, it wasn’t _proper_ ,” she wailed into his shoulder, but his thin palms grabbed her arms carefully.

            “Look here,” He said, ebony brows arched and crimson eyes locking into her own eyes. “Never apologize for defending yourself. Those men harass all of the Dunmer in the Gray Quarter.  They’ve even harassed me, but I’ve never seen them lay a hand on a woman before.” He paused to let this information sink in. “You were _right_ to do that, girl, and don’t you let anyone tell you otherwise.  Now come, we will return home now.”  He stopped to let her pick up her dirtied dress, and she tucked it under her arm, trying to hide the fact that she had been crying.  It was a futile attempt; she could feel the tears still fresh on her cheeks and she could tell that her eyes were red from crying.  But she held her head up high all the same, trying to stiffen her quivering lip.

            The walk back to the house was tearful and yet brief.  It seemed as though she had blinked and suddenly, the chair by the hearth had manifested underneath her, and so had a mug of warm tea.  “Sip this,” he ordered tenderly, and Ailonwe obeyed, wiping away the moisture from her face with a free hand. 

            “Brynja won’t tattle on you for using magic, if you’re worried,” Farys added, “She’s a good woman.  I’ve known her for awhile now.  She’s not the type to let this sort of thing go unpunished.”  He settled down in the chair across the room from her, another mug in hand.

            “I’ve burned another man before,” Ailonwe’s voice was a whisper in the cold household.  Farys stirred the fires with an old prod.  “I didn’t mean to hurt him either.  But I did.  And he died.  He tried to attack me and I just… I couldn’t control it.”

            “There is a saying that Dunmer blood carries the fires from Red Mountain,” Farys Vamori said soberly, “And, in times of need, this fire is released.  It is called the Ancestor’s Wrath by some.”  He looked at her, watching her sniffle and sighed sympathetically, “I would not view it as a curse but as a self-defense mechanism.  You did not want them to hurt you, did you?  Nor the man before.  You didn’t do anything wrong by trying to get them to leave you alone.”

            “I just don’t want to hurt people,” Ailonwe sniffed before she took a sip of the tea.  It was a simple lemon tea, but it was heated enough so that it warmed her as she drank it.  She nestled into one of the blankets Farys had draped about her shoulders, letting the steaming liquid bring life back to her trembling limbs.

             “I know,” Farys’s voice held a softness that she had heard only when she had arrived from her perilous journey.  There was a silence and the man added quietly, “Tomorrow, we will leave for Riften.  It will do you some good to not be here.” Ailonwe nodded and their discussion ended when she realized that exhaustion had settled into her bones and muscles.  She retired in her tiny bedroom, letting her hair fall in waves as she undid her loose bun.  Peeling her clothes from her body she tossed them into a nearby chair and slept naked under the thick wool covers, huddled in the fetal position with her hands tucked under her chin.

            The next morning, Farys woke her with a knock on the door and Ailonwe scrambled to pack everything.  She dressed in a light, simple dress of green and put a scarf about her neck to shield herself from the nipping winds.  They departed an hour later, her bags packed.  Farys had washed the dress while she had slept, apologizing for seeing it before the wedding.  She shrugged it off and said that it was fine in the end—the dress seemed to have survived the encounter with the brutish Nords, and for that, Ailonwe praised the Divines.

            The carriage driver was not Bjorlam, but some younger Nord that Farys seemed to know.  Though Ailonwe sorely wished they could have traveled by a different means than carriage, she found that riding alongside Farys was much more enjoyable than being stuck alone with Bjorlam.  Farys told her stories of Solstheim and things about the Ashlanders in order to entertain her on their trek.  The more he spoke, the more she wondered about his time with her mother as a child, though she quickly dismissed the notion that Farys had ever harbored feelings for the Lady of Skingrad. _It would not be appropriate to ask anyways,_ Ailonwe thought tersely to herself, though she couldn’t help but wonder.  There was a fire in his ruby eyes when he spoke of Senya, and a certain laugh in his voice that reminded Ailonwe of a bashful school boy.  

            But she couldn’t find it in her to ask him, not while they were on their way to the Temple of Mara to be wedded.  He explained to her that a few of his friends had decided to attend the ceremony as witnesses and as comrades.  Not to her surprise, the majority of them were Dunmer as well.  There were names she recognized, such as Revyn Sadri, and other names, like Faryl Atherton and Belyn Hlaalu.  Farys had hired a priest to perform the ceremony, a man named Maramal, who was said to work as a priest of Mara. 

            By lunchtime, they were in Kynesgrove, and Farys had the carriage driver stop there.  He took her inside to get food and they ate comfortably near the hearth.  A raven-haired bard was playing a song on her lute, voice like bird song and eyeshadow a deep lilac.  She sang of fighting the Legion, and hailed Ulfric Stormcloak, and for once, the Dunmer girl saw uneasiness in her fiancee’s eyes.  He said nothing of it, however, and they finished their meal in peace. 

            After climbing into the carriage once more, the wooden cart took them down a cobblestone slope, past a wandering band of Khajiit that looked as though they had not been bathed in a fortnight.  Though one of them waved, Ailonwe meekly ducked behind Farys, and twiddled her thumbs uncomfortably.  Khajiit were known in Cyrodiil to be skooma dealers and thieves—and that was the only thing she saw when she looked up the catlike folk.  Her mother had often warned her to beware the beastfolk, and Ailonwe doubted her mother had lied about their mischievous ways.

            The land between Riften and Windhelm was craggy and full of steam vents.  In the distance, a geyser spouted its steaming waters from the depths of the earth, showering the nearby pale ground.  A few mammoth skulls were partially embedded into the earth, their tusks arching into the air.  The nearby hotsprings provided an array of colors, shimmering as the sun shone upon their surface.  In the distance, Ailonwe caught the glimpse of a naked man entering one of the colorful ponds, and turned her head away in embarrassment.

            “These hotsprings are a place of rejuvenation, some say,” Farys seemed unaffected. “Perhaps we could stop here on our way back.  I’ve heard many good rumors about them.”

            “Maybe,” Ailonwe nodded. “But aren’t there dangers around here?  These bones…”

            “Mammoths and giants won’t harm you unless you approach them.  They’re fairly peaceful,” Farys shook his head.  “Bears live out here, but they usually stick to the more forested areas.”

            While Ailonwe didn’t want to mess with brown bears, the idea of bathing in the naturally warmed water did appeal to her.  She studied the road, the distant gushing of gesyers a bizarre melody to her ears.  Farys draped one of his arms around her lightly, and he brushed some dirt from her shoulder with his slender hands.  For someone that she was to be married to, Ailonwe admitted that they spent little time physically interacting.  At first, each light touch had tingled on her skin, not with passion or desire but with a peculiar sense of _wrong_.  She shied away usually, still partially convinced that this nightmare would be over within a fortnight and her mother would send word that all had been restored in Skingrad.  Each day she looked for a courier, but each day she was disappointed.  

            To be honest, Ailonwe was unsure how the post-wedding affairs would be handled.  Old enough to know by now what happened afterwards, the Dunmer confessed to herself that she was nervous.  Farys was a gentle soul, and he did care for her, but he was more akin to her father than a husband, much less a lover.  She had glimpsed his naked form once when he had stepped from the washing room.  His towel had fallen low, and though she strived to look away, she couldn’t help but peek.  Farys was a thin person, and cloth did not do much to hide it.  His ribs jutted from his sides and muscle seemed to desert him for the most part.  Ailonwe had been surprised; she had thought he had worked on a farm, and surely that would build muscle.  But it seemed as though that was not the case with her hawk-nosed fiancée.  Her worries of consummation dwarfed her worries over his physical appeal—what if he desired to make the marriage official physically?  His hand on her shoulder seemed alien and uncanny, and though a defeated part of her told her to get used to it, she couldn’t shrug off the feeling of discomfort

            _He is nice,_ she told herself, sneaking a look at him from the corner of her eye.  Farys was messing with his waist-length hair, tying it back into a ponytail.  She admitted that at least his hair was soft and shone in the sunlight—he took the time to take care of himself and make himself look presentable. _His hair is longer than mine,_ she thought to herself with a slight smile on her lips.  _But it’s still cut neatly._ Most of the men who grew their hair out left it in tangles and mats—definitely not attractive or classy, in her opinion. 

            The geyser fields seemed to stretch forever, though the carriage driver remarked that they were only skirting through the outer rim. In the distance, there was a mound of pale dirt, ancient crumbling walls still standing about its peak. “Bonestrewn Crest,” the carriage driver said darkly, “This place is a graveyard for the mammoths, aye, and a few other things I’d rather not think of.”  It was scarcely tall enough to be declared a mountain, but there was a sort of eeriness about it.  Thick fog had settled onto the crest, licking its sides and halfway concealing its peak. “We’re almost out of Eastmarch.” The driver added over his shoulder. “Riften is still a ways away yet, though.”

              _Plenty of time to dread what may happen after the ceremony,_ thought Ailonwe gloomily.

             By the time that nightfall had settled in, the carriage had come across a small campfire.  Though Farys had warned the driver to be cautious, the driver had shrugged away the Dunmer’s warning.  The owners of the fire were a motley group, primarily Nords, but a Bosmer was in their midst as well.  “Hunters,” observed Farys quietly to his young fiancée.  She noted the surprise in his voice.  _Had he been expecting bandits?_ The thought made her uneasy.  The hunters, far more amiable than Ailonwe had expected, extended an offering warm themselves by the fire, which Farys was a little reluctant to accept.  The driver pulled a few extra mats from the cart and the three travellers sat with the hunters around the small flame.

            “Run into any trouble?” one of the hunters, a broad-shouldered Nord, inquired to Farys.

            “No, not at all,” Ailonwe’s fiancée responded with the shake of his head.

            “Surprising.  There’s been a dragon sighted in this area.  They say that it makes its nest on Bonestrewn Crest,” the hunter replied, removing the last bits of his leather armor and sat bare-chested in front of the campfire. “Ol’ Ferdinand here thinks he can take it out.”

            The hunter that the Nord had been referring to was a Breton man, which Ailonwe only noticed due to his shorter height.  His dirty-blonde hair was long, like that of a Nord’s, his eyes the color of chestnuts.  His armor was a light mahogany, unlike the armor of the other hunters. _He looks more like a warrior than an average hunter…_ thought the Dunmer to herself, biting her lip.  Ferdinand’s jawline was clean-shaven, his face round and perfect, despite the grime and dirt that clung to it.  _He’s handsome,_ thought the teen. _Like a hero from a story…_

            “Better than letting it take out someone else,” Ferdinand retorted back to the Nord hunter.

            “It has been making the hunting here rather difficult.  Keeps scaring away all of the prey, or taking it for itself,” a female Nord chimed out bitterly.

            “This lad’s been here a month and he’s still as crazy as he was when we found him,” the first Nord remarked, playfully shaking Ferdinand about the shoulders and hooting with a laugh. 

            Ferdinand _harrumphed_ loudly, but shrugged all the same, eyeing his shield as if to see if it needed repairs.  The female Nord served the group of them some cooked deer meat, which Ailonwe found to be delicious.  As the male Nord, a man named Sijur, bit into his slab of meat, he added, “I’d be careful though, about travelling through here.” His eyes were directly focused on the carriage driver. “There’s a camp of Imperials down south from here.  Might be some Thalmor, too.”

            “Why would we need to worry about them?” Farys interjected, brows furrowed.

            “Thalmor been cutting down Talos worshippers left and right.  Most of them Nords,” Sijur remarked. “There was a massacre near Lake Ilinalta.  They butchered a handful of Talos worshippered while they were praying.  It’s just… best to be careful nowadays.”

            “Aye,” the carriage driver nodded to him.

            The conversation moved onto other topics, and Ailonwe found herself bored with all of the pleasant-talk that was circulating.  She retired early, though she was unable to sleep for awhile.  The Dunmer bothered herself with the stars, watching them as they twinkled overhead, and listening to the crackling of the flames as the older folk talked.  When she closed her eyes, she saw Farys, the geyser fields, and Rolff Stone-Fist’s angry snarl.  Her nostrils faintly recalled the aroma of alcohol and she turned over in her mat, shutting her eyes tightly.  

            She found solace in remembering her mother and father, and the stone halls of Skingrad’s castle.  Ailonwe thought of the warm summer breeze, the feel of the sun on her skin, and the chirping of birdsong outside of her window.  _One day…_ she told herself, nestled in a mass of blankets. _One day…_


	21. An Arrangement of Convenience - Part 4

_Valerius_

_Prefect of the Legion_

 

            They laid him down, as they had before, his bare back resting against the relatively dried blood. _Signe…_ he thought with a grimace.  They had brought her in previously, and she had come back with a nasty scar about her eye and rasping hoarsely.  Rargal had forced a goblet of water down her mouth, grumbling to himself all the while.  They had bled her greatly, and Asgeirr had worried that she would not survive.  As soon as Signe had been tossed back into her dank prison room, Rargal had fetched Valerius, grabbing him by the hair as he pulled the Imperial to his feet.

            Now, he stared at the gothic chandeliers, their candles dimly lit to provide the most basic of light to the feasting hall.  Caius Valerius swallowed, his winter-colored eyes searching the stonework ceiling for a ray of hope.  The Calming spell didn’t put his mind to ease, though his limbs felt as relaxed as they ever had.  Rargal was nearby, as he always was, his cape trailing about his pale armor as he paced the length of the table.  The Thrallmaster was upset over something but the Prefect had little idea as to what had gone wrong.

            “We secured her,” a Dunmer with aglow irises greeted the Thrallmaster, his mahogany scruff stained with crimson. “Had to lock her in a coffin.  But she’ll come to in awhile.”

            “Damn that Fura Bloodmouth and her feeding frenzies,” snapped Rargal Thrallmaster, his fangs reflecting off the firelight.  “She’s already killed one of them.  If I have to go out and find another because of her—” 

            “Namasur and Hestla are watching over her coffin.  There’s no way she could outmatch both of them,” the Dunmer replied evenly. 

            “See to it that she doesn’t, or I’ll hold you responsible myself, Garan,” Rargal seethed.

            “Mind your tongue, Thrallmaster, you are not among the Elite in this castle,” Garan retorted as he walked away, a book tucked under his arm.  Valerius exhaled dreamily, eyes closing. _The waiting is the worst,_ he thought irately, the stench of blood and death thick in the musky air.  The feasting hall was mostly emptied, though he had noticed on his way in that most of the chairs and tables had been overturned and discarded.  A fight had broken out, Valerius gathered, but was unsurprised.  Over the time spent in the company of the vampires, he had learned that they were catlike and temperamental.  _Like animals._ Once, a Breton woman had been feeding off of him, and a Nord had wanted his turn.  They had turned into squabbling monstrosities, clawing at each other with their fingers and biting, jaws snapping and darkened blood flying as they struck each other.  It had taken a few others to break up their quarrel, and Rargal had been most displeased. 

            He had lost track of how many times they had fed from his veins—some nights, he dreamt that they were feeding, and Asgeirr’s shoutings for him to quiet down were the only reason he had awoken from the nightmares.  Reality hurt more, and that was the only way Valerius could distinguish it from the terrors.  The nights and days melded together, though Valerius had a suspicion that he had largely been converted into a nocturnal prisoner.  The vampires seemed more active in the evening than the morning; he had only seen the sunlight through one of the poorly-scrubbed windows once or twice.  Today, he sensed that it was nighttime, and somewhere outside, he heard the shrill cry of the wind.  

            “Lord Harkon,” Rargal grunted, “I was wondering when you would arrive.  I have already Calmed him.  Please dine at your pleasure.”

            “Thank you.” The newcomer was a Nord, his hair the color of the space between stars and his skin as pale as death itself.  His beard was trimmed delicately, its hairs fine and smoothed over to perfection.  He wore a gallant tunic of crimson and black, his fingers adorned with rings of gold, silver, and bronze.  Everything was polished, tidy looking, and regal about Lord Harkon.  Voice like velvet, the Lord of the Castle traced his fingers along the partially-dried blood on the table, ebony brows furrowing, “So you are the newest of the cattle.” His eyes were the same as Rargal’s, his pupils and irises drowned out by a brilliant fiery gold. “Welcome to Volkihar Castle.  I trust you have been enjoying your stay.”

            The Calm left Valerius no energy to respond and Harkon’s mouth twitched, “Your kind has hunted us for so long.  But now, do you see that the roles are reversed?  It is the vampires that were born to hunt the mortals.”  His pale hand tingled and moved with a grayness, and the Nord winced, “And it has been days since I have fed.  Immortality gives you many years to think on things.  Regrets and missed opportunities.  A day seems like a blink to ones such as I.”  He reminisced aloud, flexing his fingers.  “Not that you would understand.  You were made for feeding.  You were made to be cattle.”  The lord leaned in closer, his breath an aroma of mints and blood.  The warmth resonating from his open maw tickled Valerius’s nape, and he let out a small shudder. “Fear smells good.  It’ll go well with the scent of your blood.” 

            His fangs entered Valerius’s neck and the Imperial felt the familiar sensations of burning and stabbing.  The first time had been the worst, and while every feeding was agonizing, the feeling of being fed upon was slowly becoming less dreadful.  Harkon was generous enough not to tear and claw into his flesh, though one of his hands pressed firmly against the Imperial’s forehead to steady him.  The Prefect focused his eyes on a nearby goblet, not wanting to know what it contained.  He let himself trace its design as Harkon fed; it was the easiest trick he had learned since arriving in the castle.  If he let his mind wander, the pain seemed to dull.

            Valerius wasn’t aware of his fingers moving.  But when he became aware, it was hard to not crane his neck to look at them.  He could feel them, tapping ever so lightly against the bloodstained table, and that confused him.  A peek out of the corner of his eye and the Imperial saw them painfully twitch, their movements unnatural and awkward. _I can move,_ realized the Prefect, a small gasp on his mouth. He tried to make his arm move, but only his hand responded in a tiny wiggle.  _He’s too busy feeding to notice…_ Valerius’s eyes tried to find Rargal, but the Thrallmaster was somewhere beyond the tall Lord of the Castle. _I cannot let him notice…_

            By the time the feeding was over, Valerius had managed to wiggle his biggest toes discreetly and up to his elbow was willing to combat the calming spell. Harkon pulled away, bloodied and smiling. “You may take him,” Harkon looked at the Thrallmaster, voice dulled with boredom. “I will return to my chambers.”

            “Of course, my lord,” Rargal replied respectfully, and hoisted Valerius to his feet.  The Imperial found his footing quicker than he thought he could, blinking back a few stinging tears of pain.  Merciless, the Thrallmaster pushed him forward, grumbling to himself darkly. Valerius let the vampire escort him back into the cell, sitting down as soon as he had made it in.  Panting, he rubbed at his eyes, or tried to as the Thrallmaster chained him back to the wall.

            Carelessly, the pale Rargal pressed a bandage into the bite wound, leaving it there and walking away, the barred door shutting behind him. _I did it,_ excitement pulsed through his veins, his white smile glinting off the lights.  A hoarse, maddened chuckle began in his throat, more tears forming above his thin cheeks.  The chuckle evolved into a laugh, humorless and lavished with a sickened insanity.  Caius Valerius leaned against the wall, dirt-ridden hands covering his face as he laughed, body shaking and twitching as it gradually came back to life.  

            “Lad…?” Asgeirr’s voice was a ghostly whisper, but the Imperial did not hear him.  He rocked back and forth in his cackles, letting them wash and roll over his trembling form.  Keeping a palm firmly pressed on the bandage about his neck, the Imperial shivered with glee, rising up to his feet slowly.  His free hand brushed back his mop of ebony tangles, and wiped as his growing scruff. 

            _Divines, thank you…_ He thought, lowering his head.  With gnashed teeth, the Imperial hobbled to the bars between his cell and Louvel’s.  “Breton…” His voice was a hoarse and alien noise in his throat, and Valerius wondered when he had last used it.  “Breton!” He barked, the strength of a Prefect barely audible in his command.  Louvel Fleury stirred and rolled over, his wispy hair ruffled. 

            “What is it, Imperial?” came the disdained answer, and Louvel made a face. “You smell like death.” He gave a voluntary, harsh cough for emphasis.

            “Give me… one of those bones, please,” Valerius pointed a thin finger past Louvel’s cell, into the one adjacent.  “Bjartir’s cell has them, I believe.”

            “You want me to touch…” began the Breton shrilly, but Valerius’s narrowed gaze quieted him.  He shrank back, stumbling over himself as he made his way to the far side of the cell. “Stupid Imperial… I don’t know what you’ve got planned but you’re going to get yourself killed, I think.”  The Breton leaned over, reaching with a disgustingly pale hand towards the pile of bones in Bjartir’s old cell.

            “Shut up and grab one,” Valerius snapped, and was rewarded with what he presumed was some a forearm bone. “It’ll do…” He nodded to the short, thinning merchant, and retreated into the shadows of his own cell.  The bone was a toy, and he played with it in his hands before he began working.  On most days, he might have considered it disturbing to have such an item in possession, but Volkihar Keep had made Valerius uncaring and savage.  His nails were wrought with grime and his hair fell in a tangle at his shoulders.  The stench of blood was the only aroma he knew, and death was the only law in the castle.  Fortunately, the bone’s previous owner had no need for it any longer, and so Valerius began to work with it.  He raked it against the stone as hard as his shrinking muscles could muster. 

            “What’s that noise, lad?” Asgeirr asked him.

            “Freedom.”

            “You remember what the Thrallmaster said,” Asgeirr warned him softly, “He will make you into a thrall if you try to escape.”

            “He will have to kill me before that happens,” Valerius stated rigidly as he ground the arm bone into the stone floor. It was brittle, he noted as he worked vigorously.  It chipped easily, which he figured would be both good and bad for his scheme.  _I’ll need to make a point… like a needle._   A miracle would have to be bestowed upon him for this to work, but he was high off of the realization that he had wiggled his hand while under the vampiric spell.  _If I can fashion this into a needle… I could pick the lock. I could at least try._  If not, he could try to make it into a knife—what was it that it was called in prisons?  _A shank!_ He remembered, a wry smile on his face.

            “What’s brought this about, eh?” Asgeirr asked him.

            “There’s been a sign,” Valerius replied, “From Stendarr.”

            “He’s gone mad,” Louvel clarified, nestled into the thin straws that made up his primitive bed.  “He’s going to get himself killed or worse, turned into one of those mindless thralls.”

            “And you’re going to be stuck here,” Valerius responded with a rueful smirk. “Is there a stone in someone’s cell?  It would make this… easier.”

            “No, but I will look around,” Asgeirr promised.

            “I will try to get everyone out of here.  But it will be hard,” Valerius told them sternly, “I am…” _A Prefect of the Legion.  Sworn to the Emperor and sworn to protect the people of the Empire._ “… going to bring this lot to justice—both the Empire’s and the Divines’s.” Vampirism was a disease that interfered with the laws of the Empire, and that alone was enough to warrant an execution.  Valerius would see them all burned at the stake for their atrocious crimes.  

            The Imperial tried to work quietly, though scraping the bone against the stone floor emitted a small screech with each rub. When the doors would open, Valerius would stuff the bone into his pant leg, or have it press against his thigh, the string on his pants securing it.  His tattered tunic had long worn away from being handled so roughly by the vampires, and lay in the area he had designated for urinating and feces.  It was too bloodied to use for a blanket, and its stench was worse than the Thrallmaster’s hot breath. Valerius kept to the straw pile, tirelessly shaping the bone as best as he could with such limited materials.  

            A stone scattered across, through the bars and into his cell a day later.  It was unannounced, but he suspected Agacia had been the one to toss it.  A smile wormed its way across his lips and he murmured a small thanks to Stendarr as he turned the rock over in his palm. “Castle Volkihar…” he repeated the words over and over as he worked, in a low, melodic chant that didn’t stray from a whisper. “Lord Harkon…” When he escaped, he would bring half the Legion with him to exterminate the fell operations occurring behind the keep’s ancient walls. 

            _With the rebellion, it’ll be hard to sway General Tullius to take action,_ thought a negative part of Valerius’s mind, but the Imperial shoved that thought aside. Tullius was a good man, full of honor, and he had the people in his mind.  _He wants to protect them just as much as I do.  This vampire threat… it’s been an unknown operation for Divines know how long.  But it must be stopped._

            Valerius had heard tales since he was a boy of the vampires and their origins.  Some said that they were the consorts of daedra.  Others claimed that black magic had created the first vampire.  The oldest tale was that they were the children of the daedric prince Molag Bal, a domineering demon that thrived off of enslavement.  Valerius didn’t care which story was true; he cared only that the vampires were slain.  _Asgeirr, Signe, Bjartir, Louvel, Agacia… myself… and countless others have fallen victim to this clan.  How is it that this has not been noticed?_ He roared inwardly, raking the bone against the stone roughly.

            Cyrodiil had vampires.  One had even been the Count of Skingrad for some time before his identity had been discovered.  The Empire had burned him, Valerius heard, and his name had been marked black with dishonor. That was when the Kevarathis had been made into the ruling family over Skingrad, descended from Halia the Hero.  That had been the last true scandal in Cyrodiil, though Valerius had yet to have been born.  Skingrad was cursed, some said.  Other expeditions in the castle had revealed grisly secrets kept by the ex-Count Janus Hassildor, including the usage of prisoners to feed a feral vampire. 

            But the counts and countesses of the modern day era were no better, Valerius feared.  Sure, they were not bloodsucking vampires, but there were suspicious rumors about their wealth.  _They’re vampires for power, if anything,_ thought the Imperial grimly as he worked. _But if the Emperor hasn’t deposed of them, then they must not be as bad as the commonfolk say they are._   They were innocent until proven guilty by the court. _How it ought to be.  Not like this barbaric nation known as Skyrim.  Blood and steel is the language of primitives._   Thought the Imperial with gnashed teeth.   _It is the only language they know.  Not the language of civility, of humans.  Not the language of law and order.  I will have to speak their language to get them to understand my meaning—I do not intend to be their cattle until I wither and die here._  He missed the warmth of Cyrodiil and how everything fell into an unbreakable order.

            Remembering his homeland did nothing but make him homesick.  From there, his mind wandered to the Great Forest, where he had gone hunting as a child.  He thought of when his father had come home from the war and had offered to teach him how to ride like a Legionnaire would.  He had never owned a true sword until he had joined the Legion in the Imperial City.  His first sword had been a beautifully-crafted thing in his eyes, a sword meant for a god in comparison to the bone shank he was sharpening.  It had been lost in a fight against a minotaur long ago.  It had been splintered under the beast’s hooves, but Valerius had dug the shard remaining attached to the hilt into the creature’s abdomen, spilling its entrails.

            The memory put a smile on Valerius’s face. _This will be no different… I have dwelt here in misery for too long, forgetting who I am, and letting them devour me.  There is hope.  I have seen it.  The others will rely on me to show them the way._ He ran his thumb over the sharpening point of the bone knife, tongue wetting his dry lips. _It is not steel nor it is iron or elven-made, but it is still a weapon.  And that could mean much in this desolate place._


	22. An Arrangement of Convenience - Part 5

_Chiran_

_Unblooded_

 

            The armor came some time later, delivered to the barracks by Hermir Strong-Heart.  Ralof and Chiran thanked her for the armor and the convenience of her bringing it to the palace, though Chiran wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected.  The human that had crafted his new uniform had done a well enough job to make his tail have access out of the chainmail, though, the helmet looked as though it were a catastrophe waiting to happen.  Ralof donned his repaired set with little difficulty, beaming as he did it. “It’s just like the first time I ever wore it.  Talos bless you and Oengul, Hermir,” Ralof nodded to her and the Nord woman blushed a deep crimson, shoving off the compliment as though it were nothing.

            Chiran fastened the sash of pale navy over his chainmail, moving a belt buckle so that it sat more comfortably on his thin chest.  The fur gauntlets seemed odd on his already furry arms, but the tiger did not complain; it was better than leaving himself exposed to his opponents. The boots roseto his kneecaps, lined with fur, but sturdy enough to endure long treks.  Chiran was silently impressed, and let it show with the slight twinge of a smile on his thin lips. 

            “I know Oengul said he’d craft a scaled helmet, but we were running low on materials,” Hermir Strong-Heart said apologetically of the helm. “It may not fit.  Do not worry, though, we will have another one soon.”

            “This will suffice,” he had never been an expert at complimenting others, and Hermir seemed to take it well enough.  She departed quickly after, muttering something about needing to purchase some vegetables from Tulvur.  Chiran was left to eye the helm suspiciously with his blazing eyes, frowning all the while.  He lifted it up, taking note of the ear holes and the broad eyeholes. 

            “You’re a true son of Skyrim now,” Ralof clapped Chiran on the shoulder as the Khajiit struggled with his new helmet. “What do you think of Windhelm?  I suppose this place is a lot different than where you’re from.”  The Khajiit’s massive ears flicked back as he cautiously lowered the helm onto his head.  It jammed at the muzzle-just as he expected with a soft hiss of frustration before realizing it was stuck on his soft, pink nose.

            Ralof wasn’t paying attention, looking out at the snowy, gray city of Windhelm. “Helgen.  It’s been reduced to ashes and I doubt the Empire’s noticed.”  He sounded as bitter as he did vengeful, but Chiran was more focused on getting his helm off his head.   “I’ve been assigned to the reserve platoon for the next few weeks.  Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced.  What about you?”

            The Khajiit’s helm came off with a jolt, clattering to the ground uselessly.  He stifled a growl of displeasure, responding with, “Same.”  He did not pick up the helmet as they departed the front porch of the Palace of Kings, stepping into the fierce Skyrim winds that blew from the north.  His ears flitted back in dismay as he cast his gaze skyward, at the ever-gray clouds that rested above Windhelm.

            “I’m off to Candlehearth Hall, then.  Been too long since I had some of their mead,” Ralof nodded to him, “Take a look around, and if anyone gives you trouble, give them trouble right back.” He laughed heartily as he walked away, leaving the black-striped Khajiit in the midst of the city, the winds howling about the stone buildings.  He watched Ralof go before he began towards the middle of the city, boots thudding against the ground softly.  His gaze swept across to the tavern in the midst of the square- Candlehearth Hall was what it was called on its front, and Chiran merely walked by.  Music from the bards within carried out to his ears, and he realized it was a song he did not know.

            “Whoa there,” a man greeted him, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s a cat like you doing in Windhelm?”

            Chiran looked over his shoulders, orange eyes devoid of any kind of emotion. _And so it begins for the day._   Ever since he had moved into Windhelm, there had been questions thrown at him, hisses of disapproval from the women, and scornful glares.  One child had called him a fleabag, and had tried to get his dog to chase him.  Chiran had shown the dog his own fangs and that had sent both canine and companion skittering away.  A man had tried to fist-fight him, and Chiran had declined.  When the man had tried to swing anyways, the cat had side-stepped and sent a boot into the back of the drunk’s knee.  Since Chiran had not swung first, the guards had not minded it at all, though few seemed to like him.  _They don’t seem to like many of the Stormcloaks to begin with,_ thought the tiger to himself. 

            “I asked you a question!” Thundered the man, and the Khajiit had learned not to answer such questions.  It always led to a conflict.

            When Chiran decided to walk away, the hand seized him and the tiger found himself whirling around.  The man was sneering into his face, but the Khajiit was taller, his tail lashing with silent frustration.  “HEY!  CAT!  I WAS TALKING TO—”

            “I have nothing to say to you,” murmured the cat in response and as the man began to take a swing, Chiran’s lips rippled with a snarl.  The Nord man backed away, thinking twice and sulking away with dark whispers about his mouth.  The Khajiit watched him go, his ears erect and his eyes like twin orange fires in the grayness of Windhelm.  

            Undisturbed, the rest of the city continued on in its bleak state, the bard’s music still trailing from the nearby inn. He made a left, stalking the gray, bleak city as though it were the warm sands he hailed from.  The cat kept to himself as he passed others.  Clips of conversations cut in and out.  He didn’t listen, not wanting to hear the quaint gossip of the common folk.

            Chiran’s hunt for the Butcher had been largely unsuccessful.  Walking about at night had not gained him any luck, though the posters that littered the walls had tipped him off.  He pulled the tattered parchment from his pocket, studying the words hard. _Beware the Butcher... by Viola Giordano._   He had resolved to find this woman and uncover what knowledge she might have on the Butcher.

            _Viola.  An Imperial name,_ thought the Khajiit, though not much distinguished Imperials from Nords and Bretons and Redguard in his mind.  They were all two-legged, bleating humans with their rounded ears and snobbish lifestyles.  He found her near the Gray Quarter, putting up a sign near a stone house. She was a short woman, thin to the bone from lack of proper nourishment, though he doubted she was truly that poor.  Her gown was plain brown and white, and her hair fell in gray ringlets down her back, combed carefully.  She was wrinkled and fragile; Chiran kept from making a face at her haggard appearance. “Viola,” his breath carried her name, and the woman turned.  At first, her hands clutched the papers she carried with vigorous fear, but he held up a hand to show he came in peace.

            “I am here to know of this…” His orange eyes flitted to the poster she was hanging. “ _Butcher._ ”

            “You want information?” Viola raised her thin brows. “As if there isn’t enough in the streets—all the blood that’s on the ice and stone.”  She sound frustrated, but Chiran was unrelenting. “I've been following him for months now. Well, not actually following. Trying to find him. The guards won't help. The people won't help. I'm the only one who thinks he can be caught.”

            “Why does no one care?” Chiran asked, studying her.

            “Oh, they care all right. Just none of them thinks to do anything about it. They say I'm just snooping around bothering people, but I'm trying to save lives!” Viola stamped a foot indignantly, but she looked like a fool to the tiger. “The bad part is that someone keeps taking my fliers DOWN!  Can you believe it?  I'm trying to save lives and someone’s acting like this is a game!”

            Chiran’s apricot eyes glittered with thought, “Unless… the Butcher was taking them down.”  The realization made the elder’s eyes widen and the Khajiit continued, “I am a Stormcloak.  The guards might not be trying their hardest… but I shall.  This is a threat that must be eliminated.  If you find this man, you will tell me.”

            “I… understand,” Viola said slowly.

            “I will do my own investigation,” Chiran added firmly. “We will talk more tomorrow, after I am done searching the city for more clues.”  

            “Y-yes… Yes, that sounds wonderful,” Viola replied, “Thank you.  Thank the Divines someone finally cares!” She seemed happy, and Chiran gave her a tiny smirk of satisfaction before he departed, leaving her to her posters.  _Ralof is at the tavern.  Taverns are where drunk people’s tongues fly the most free._   It would be a good enough start and the Khajiit drifted down the stony corridors of Windhelm, passing by a few Dunmer children playing in the streets. 

            There was a certain stench about the Gray Quarter that Chiran disliked, though he couldn’t put his finger on it.  It seemed to smell of ill feelings and oppression, though the nature of the Dark Elves had only put them there.  _Khajiit are thieves, but none are in comparison to the elves,_ thought the tiger ruefully, hand staying near his quiver.  He disliked the Gray Quarter, and sought to find its exit as quickly as he could.  The residential area near the Palace drew him in, and though he had been in Windhelm for some time, he still found its labyrinth-style to be quite confusing.  Dully, his eyes moved to the figure of a young boy ahead, speaking to a slim and fit Dunmer woman.

            “Then it’s true, what everyone is saying?” the boy was inquiring the woman, “That Aventus Aretino is doing the Black Sacrament?  Trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?”  His ears disobeyed him, and he listened, his vigilant pace slowing as he looked at the Nord boy who was speaking.

            _Black Sacrament…_ The words sounded familiar to him.  In that moment, Chiran was taken back, to his days as a cub, wandering the caravan routes of Elsweyr.  He did not remember much of his parents, only that his father had been flecked and spotted black with fur that matched mud and eyes that gleamed like sapphires.  His mother was a vaguer memory than that… When Chiran spoke of his parents, he spoke of the gray-black S’krir, who first taught him to string a bow.  S’krir had taught him everything he had known as a cub, from hunting to the Daedra, to even the guilds that dotted Tamriel’s spanse.

            He heard S’krir’s words, even then as he stood bathed in white flakes, telling him gruesome tales of the Dark Brotherhood and their ferocity _._   _“They come into the night and they take murderers under their wing.  The Argonians, the lizard-people, they offer up some of their children to the Brotherhood, to become shadows in the night.”_ S’krir’s warning hiss resounding in his ears. _“They kill—not for joy.  For money?  Perhaps.  For their own sense of justice?  Maybe.  All I know is that they kill and they roil in their darkness, serving old gods.”_

            “Oh Grimvar… always with the nonsense.  No, no, of course not. Those are just tales…” the Dunmer woman chided him sternly, sweeping her dainty hands around his shoulders and prying him from the house.

            “Fine.  Then I’ll invite him to play.  He lives right there.  I’m going to knock on his door…” Grimvar, the boy, challenged her fearlessly, pulling away from her grasp and darting to the door.

            “No, child!  Wait!” cried the woman, sanguine eyes flooded with horror, “That boy, that house- they’re cursed.”

            That did nothing to deter the now triumphant child, “Ha! Then I’m right.  I knew it.  He’s trying to have somebody killed!”  As he danced about smugly, the Dunmer woman steered him away once more.

            “All right, I won’t deny it, child.  What you heard is true. But Aventus Aretino walks a dark path.  His actions can only lead to ruin,” the Dunmer said sternly, “Now enough.  We will speak no more of this. I am the only friend you need.”  As she led the boy away, Chiran’s amber gaze fell onto the house, curiosity piqued.

            _“I would not do that, boy…”_ S’krir sounded louder this time, but Chiran ignored the voice and grasped the handle of the manor in his large paw of a hand.  He jiggled the knob, scowling as it didn’t give way.  The cat pressed harder, after tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, and finally resorted to slamming into the door a few times.  Despite its age, it held true, and Chiran’s scowl deepened.  He withdrew a set of lockpicks from his pocket, crouching on one knee.  Sliding the picks into the keyhole, he fiddled with the lock, a precise and difficult dance.  The first one broke almost instantly, and Chiran fished for another, a pick that worked in spite of its rusted condition.

            The door and its lock yielded to him and the Khajiit slid into the manor, the door clicking shut behind him.  As he crept up the stairs, he heard the voice-- the pleading, desperate voice of a child.  Chiran’s ears were flattened against his skull as he listened, the boy’s whimpers echoing softly off the walls, “Please… how long must I do this? I keep praying, Night Mother.  Why won’t you answer me?”  There was a pause, then the mantra began, “Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…” Chiran edged closer, peering around the corner.  The voice was louder as the chant continued, “Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.”

            He searched the first room, then the next, the voice growing louder, then distant, then louder again.  The slender Khajiit rounded the corner, pausing as he loomed over the child.  Aventus was a boy of a young age- twelve, Chiran guessed, with as much sense as any boy of that age would have.  His hair was short-cropped and brown, his complexion pale and his cheekbones showing through his skin.  _Why did the guard do nothing?_  Chiran wondered, but thought of the Butcher. _They probably wrote this off as a rumor._ But still, if the Dunmer woman outside had known, someone would have had to see him kill someone… Or at least take the parts from the Hall of the Dead.  _With the Butcher about, he might have stolen the organs from there,_ thought the tiger to himself. _If so, he is resourceful… for a furless, starved brat._ Though the cat was uneasy, he found his uncertainty replaced with irritation. _The guards in this city are useless,_ concluded the tiger nonchalantly with the flick of a large ear.

            Quietly, the archer’s amber eyes moved to the ring of lit candles, the assortment of body parts causing his nose to wrinkle out of disgust. The smell was horrendous, he noted, not sure which organ it was that was so repulsing.  Aventus had indeed walked the dark path; Chiran wasn’t sure where a child could find a full skeleton and the flesh of a man, but the boy had.  Coupled with a dagger and a book, the entire scene was more than most men could tolerate, a disturbing spray of red painting the walls and creaking wooden floor. The tiger’s gaze fell upon the boy, weak from starvation and with rings under his eyes.

            But Chiran’s arrival had sparked something in the boy’s dark eyes.  There was something… Hope?  The archer wasn’t sure he liked the way that the child looked at him. “It _worked_! I knew you'd come, I just knew it! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over. With the body and the... the things. And then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood.”

            Chiran didn’t respond, looking down at the pitiful child with his general stoic stare. The boy was exhausted, stumbling as he rose from the ground.  “It took so long. So very long. But now that you're here, you can accept my contract."  The Khajiit helped the boy stand with a sturdy hand, studying him with his orange eyes.  Hastily, the boy pushed his hand away and dusted himself off, jabbering all the while, “You don't have to say anything. There's no need. You're here, so I know you'll accept my contract." 

            He found the boy’s confidence amusing.  There was practically a host of inquiring eyes at his residence.  So far the guards had done nothing, but the tiger did not count them out just yet. He supposed standing over the child would make him look all the more suspicious. The tiger was impressed, despite all of his worries, that the child even knew how to perform the Black Sacrament.  _If a boy knows this ritual,_ thought the tiger to himself, _then why not the guards?_ Chiran’s tail danced with excited anxiety. _Presuming the lot of them aren’t complete fools. But past experience is noton their side._   He chuckled inwardly.  _I suppose that is presuming too much._

             But where would that leave the tiger?  Under the command of Ulfric, he was no guard for the city, but a soldier of the rebellion.  Since he had arrived in Windhelm, the difference between the guards and the soldiers had been made very clear to him.  The soldiers were typically rowdy Nords with the thirst for blood, while the guards seemed cold as permafrost. _Why am I here?_ He questioned himself sternly. _I am no assassin. I am also no guard.  This does not concern me…_ But there was an intrigue in his heart that wanted to know _why_ the boy had thought to call for the ancient cult of killers.  

            “My mother, she... she died. I... I'm all alone now. So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften. Honorhall. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. They call her Grelod the Kind. But she's not kind. She's terrible. To all of us. So I ran away, and came home. And performed the Black Sacrament. Now you're here! And you can kill Grelod the Kind!"

            _Grelod the Kind…_ he fought back a snort of disdain for her title.  As he released the boy’s shoulder, he turned away from the Imperial boy, cloaked in silence. “You’ll do it right?” the boy said, voice strained with hints of a plea. “I have money… I… I can pay you for it.” Chiran glared at the boy over his shoulder before he walked away, departing the foul-smelling room and moving towards the stairs.  Aventus chased after him, frail fingers grabbing at his muscular arms.

            “Please!  You’ll do it!  Won’t you?” His confidence was lost in an instant, and Aventus became nothing more than a sobbing child, collapsing on the ground.  Chiran’s ears drew back, earrings clinking delicately against each other.  He grabbed Aventus, pulling him to his feet.

            “ _Yes_ ,” Chiran answered, his voice a rumble, low and dangerous. When Aventus found his footing, Chiran released him, and he departed from the house swiftly, stepping into the brisk evening.

            _This is not your job,_ his mind sneered at him. _You should not care for starving children who cannot solve their own problems._   He ignored the voice as he walked towards the gates of Windhelm, clad still in the uniform of the Stormcloaks.  No one spared him another look as he stepped outside, his walk purposeful and confident. _Riften is a few days away.  You have no horse._  Chiran continued out of the city, across the great stone bridge.  _This is not a matter that concerns you._   But then whom did it concern?  The Dark Brotherhood?  He smirked to himself, a wry and unpleasant looking grin.  As far as he was concerned, the Dark Brotherhood was dead, the final tale S’krir had told him under the stars in Elsweyr.


	23. An Arrangement of Convenience - Part 6

_Synestra_

 

            Her single gold eye studied the light filtering from above, the scent of pine tickling her nose.  The yellow-clad woman had been working with her wounded side for a few days now, and Synestra was thankful for her diligence.  The inn had seemed like a decent enough idea for a place to stay while she recovered from the fight against the dragon, though her wounds proved to be more than she realized.  Hastily, the elf had thrown healing spells and hexes to numb the pain—anything she could think of while she planned her next move.  But she felt it growing towards infection, and that was when she had decided to give herself over to the hands of Kynareth’s priests.  

            An elderly woman had worked on her the majority of the time she was there, and within the first day, Synestra had found that her name was Danica Pure-Spring, and she was neither for the Stormcloaks nor against them. She was, however, vexed that they were the cause of so many injuries. Her assistant was a Redguard woman, whose skin was like ebony compared to the pale Nords of Whiterun.  Ahlam was her name, and she came in each morning with a complaint about her husband, Synestra had noticed.

            “The gap between us is widening… he just seems so… self-absorbed,” complained Ahlam as she handed Danica fresh bandages.  “His obsession with this war is unsettling and he spends more and more time at Dragonsreach, fawning over every shit the Jarl takes.”

            “Manners!” Danica chided her softly, but chuckled all the same as her wrinkled hands glowed with a healing spell.  Synestra felt her skin prickle and she sucked in a quick breath of air before the pain began.  “You must look on the bright side, my friend. If soldiers storm this city, there’s a good chance your husband could be killed.”

            Ahlam laughed, “And you say I have ill-manners.”  She left and returned with a white pasty ointment, “At least I don’t wish people into their graves.” There was a bit of a melody to her voice and Synestra’s lip curled with a slight smirk. “He keeps bragging about owning Chillfurrow Farm, the _best farm in the hold._   I don’t think he’s gone down there once in the past three months.  Poor Wilmuth.  I don’t know how he stands it.”

            “I don’t know how you stand it,” Danica Pure-Spring laughed and patted Synestra’s shoulder. “You’re all fixed up now.  It looks as though you might scar there, but it should not give you much trouble in a week or so.”

            “Thank you,” Synestra pulled down her tunic to cover her exposed side, then hopped from the bench.  

            “Blessings of Kynareth upon you,” Danica added benevolently over her shoulder.

            “And to you two as well,” Synestra replied with the slight nod of her head.  Grabbing her pack, the High Elf checked her sword to see if it was still in the same condition as she had left it.  After she strapped it onto her waist, she departed the sun-lit temple.   

            Stepping into the breeze, she allowed her hair to blow about, brushing it back only once with her hand to keep it from her good eye.  The elf withdrew a piece of paper from her pocket, eyeing it over swiftly before folding it and putting it back.  _A summons to Dragonsreach,_ she thought again, eager since the moment she had received the letter from the courier.  Jarl Balgruuf had wanted to see her, no doubt to hear more on her side of the fight against the dragon.  The elf would grant him his wish, but she found her way to the blacksmith first.  She’d previously sold the armor she had taken from the fallen Legionnaire, glad to be rid of the boots that didn’t quite fit her feet.  She found a set to her liking, leather and, though pricey, sturdy for lighter-crafted armor.  The elf paid the tanned Imperial woman a healthy sum, and departed with her new armor.

            She donned the brown armor before she approached Dragonsreach, the weight not as comfortable as the tunic had been.  Synestra ran her fingers through her hair to tame it slightly, and proceeded inside, stoic expression never escaping her scarred face.  Jarl Balgruuf was where he sat, just as before, his housecarl to his left and his steward to his right.  Synestra’s procession was slowed by the occasional bumping of armor against the healing wound, but she gritted it through and climbed the steps.

            “My Jarl,” Synestra bowed and waited with her knee still touching the wooden floor.

            “Rise,” Balgruuf the Greater commanded softly and she obeyed, looking up at the Nord upon his throne.  His pale hair had been combed back and braided, his forehead adorned with a circlet of rubies and sapphires.  A large mantle of fur was draped about his shoulders, and his beard was trimmed shorter than it had been before. “Synestra, once again you have proven yourself to be a valuable asset to Whiterun.  Not only have you helped Farengar with his research, but you have aided this city against the dragon attack.” He rose from his chair, royal crimson tunic glittering with its gold lining and decorations. “By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun.  It is the greatest honor within my power to grant. Lydia will be your personal housecarl.”

            Synestra was speechless, but bowed all the same, “Thank you, my Jarl.  I am honored by this title.” 

            “There is also land available for purchase in Whiterun,” the steward Proventus spoke up, then added humbly, “If the Lady Thane should wish it.”

            “I will consider it,” Synestra allowed, “My funds are not great at the moment.” 

            “To go with your title, I had a sword made for you.  Behold, the Blade of Whiterun!” the Jarl produced the sword from the depths of his wolf-fur cape, a gloriously-crafted sword that brimmed with blue steel.  It looked made of steel, though the blade itself was crafted with a woven, knot-like design on its sides.  The blade curved inward ever so slightly in the style of ancient Nordic swords, and its hilt was bound with tether and rope for a better grip.  Its pommel was crested with rubies and sapphires, and the cross of the hilt bore the face of a stallion, the sigil of Whiterun.  “It has been enchanted by Farengar with lightning magic.  A fitting blade for the one who slew the dragon.” Synestra accepted the blade with both hands outstretched, looking over the sword with an unbreakable smile on her lips.

            “It is… gorgeous, my Jarl,” her voice was reduced in volume as she marveled over its lightness. _It is lighter than elven-made blades,_ she realized as she gripped its bound hilt. “You have my eternal gratitude.” 

            “May the Divines bless you,” Jarl Balgruuf smiled and sat back down in his chair. 

            There were congratulations thrown at her, and Synestra felt her thin cheeks flush.  Irileth even curled her mouth into a smile for the occasion.  The Jarl’s children seemed largely bored with the tiny ceremony, though the youngest seemed to stare holes through her, his dark eyes unblinking and undaunted. Synestra was greeted last by Farengar, who gave her a potion of invisibility for a gift. “Just don’t go using it to commit crimes,” Farengar said tersely, but smiled all the same as Synestra took the white elixir.  

            “It was very thoughtful of you,” Synestra said earnestly.

            The wave of congratulations died away, and Balgruuf was called to other pressing matters.  As the hall began to return to its usual lax state, the High Elf began back down the steps, towards the door.  She unstrapped the Imperial blade and replaced it with the Nordic one, its lightness evident at her hip. _It feels right,_ thought the High Elf in satisfaction. It was not the prettiest blade, but it seemed to hum at her side, its strange blueness marking it unlike any other sword that the High Elf had seen.

            Balgruuf’s youngest stopped her at the door, obsidian eyes studying her scarred face as he folded his arms. Synestra looked down at him, dwarfed by her height.  His hair was long, a dark mahogany that fell in waves almost to his shoulder. _He doesn’t look like Balgruuf,_ thought the elf, and she wondered what had ever happened to Balgruuf’s wife. _Three kids, no mother…_ there was a story there, she knew. “I know what your name is,” the boy announced.

            “So do I,” Synestra responded evenly.

            “Do you?” the boy asked her, voice scathing with an arrogance that didn’t belong to a child.  _Something about the boy is not right.  There is an air about him… I dislike it._

            “Nelkir!” Balgruuf’s voice sounded in the distance. “Damn it, boy, where have you scurried off to? It’s time to get fitted for your new tunic…”

            The boy tossed a resentful look behind Synestra, then muttered, “Always getting in my way…” His jet-black eyes flitted to her and he whispered, “I won’t tell anyone, though.” She watched him go, puzzled and intrigued simultaneously. _What a strange child…_ thought the High Elf, but there was a nervousness that stirred in her heart.  The Thane departed Dragonsreach quickly, looking over her shoulder at where the boy was greeting his father sullenly.

            Her heart was still quickened with nerves by the time she went down the last set of stairs, and she took the moment to observe Whiterun’s serene landscape. _It was just a child’s imagination,_ thought the elf as she walked, the temple to her right and the hulking frame of Jorrvaskr to her left. _The home of the Companions,_ thought the woman, and started towards it.  It was an old ship, turned upside-down, and had been transformed into a headquarters at some point by the honorable warriors.  _They’re efficient, I suppose.  Not letting an entire war craft go to waste…._  She wasn’t sure why her feet guided her to the overturned vessel’s shadow, but the Altmer stood in its presence, neck craned back to take its massiveness in.  

            _No.  This is foolish.  I had made plans to leave Whiterun as soon as I had recovered, so that I could find the Dragonborn,_ she thought, looking away from Jorrvaskr.  And yet, she wondered how much help Delphine would get from an old veteran who had not sparred with a proper soldier in years.  She wondered how much use she would bein finding this “Dragonborn” if she had no resources or connections, and that thought alone drove her to open the door into the converted feasting hall, and step into the coolness of the boat’s interior.

            Upon her entry, a fight broke out on the far side.  As others were clambering over each other to get a better look at the fight, Synestra awkwardly stood in the doorway, brows raised. There were two fighters- a Dunmer man with his hair tied back, and a Nord woman, face painted with red and her face wrought with an enraged snarl. “Get ‘em, Njada!” an Imperial woman yelled, “Rip his damn balls off.”

            “Knock the bitch down, Athis!” a scraggly-haired Nord hooted, a mug lifted skyward, “I’m betting on you!  Don’t you dare lose me another ten septims!”

            The Nord woman provided to be swifter than the elf, ducking under his punches and putting in a strike or two into his torso.  He grunted and stumbled back, face wrought with concentration and frustration.  In a feeble attempt, he made to give her a fistful in the mouth but even Synestra could see he was outmatched. She took the Dunmer into a headlock, pummelling him with a fist until his knees buckled and a cry erupted out of his mouth for mercy.  With a satisfied _huff_ , the sinewy Nord let the Dark Elf collapse onto the wooden floor, the sound of cheers and the sloshing of drinks drowning out her smug remarks to her opponent. 

            “Who’re you?” A balding man squinted at her, arms folded across his broad chest. 

            “I was hoping to join the Companions,” Synestra replied, caught momentarily off-guard by his appearance.  It bothered her when others approached her blinded right side, but she brushed off her irritation, replacing it with calmness.

            “That is not for me to decide.  You will want to speak with Kodlak Whitemane.  He will be in the Living Quarters, just down the steps,” the muscular man grunted, gesturing over to the far side of the feasting hall.

            “Thank you,” Synestra said courteously, making her way towards the stairs and attempting to ignore his beady gaze that trailed after her. _They mistrust elves so quickly,_ thought the veteran soldier. _At least High Elves._   The wounds of the Great War had run deep in Skyrim and the Thalmor were the only real presence that the Altmer had in the frigid north. _Every time they see me, I am nothing more than another oppressor._

The Living Quarters was primarily a large corridor, lined with books, shelves, and items of any typical household.  In all honesty, the heavy silence that hung in the quarters made her only want to turn back and continue her search for this… Kodlak Whitemane elsewhere.  But the soft murmur of voices in the hallway beckoned her and she followed, their conversation merely snippets to her pointed ears.

            "… call of the blood."

            “We all… But we can….”

            “I don’t know if the rest…”

            “I will speak with them.”

            The origin of the voices were two Nords, one of dark, unkept hair and the other bearing a grayed lion’s mane. As soon as it was apparent that they were not alone, their conversation came to a halt.  The dark-haired one eyed her warily, his brow furrowed about his pale blue eyes.  In contrast, the gray-haired Nord seemed not at all daunted by her, turning his eyes from a slice of pie on a plate to the High Elf.  Something about his aged eyes glimmered as she approached, and Synestra felt a wave of uneasiness.

            “And who is this?” the old Nord asked, his voice strong despite his age.

            “Synestra, sir,” she responded without hesitation. “I am here to join.  I presume you are Kodlak Whitemane?”

            “I am.” The spark in his eyes seemed to grow with this, and the old Nord smiled, stroking at his large beard. “ Here, let me have a look at you.  These eyes are old…” She shuffled forward a step and his brows rose. _He looks at me as though he knows me,_ thought the Altmer to herself, not daring to voice her thought.  Kodlak studied her as though he were picking out a new blade, as though every detail counted.  The glint in his eye never left, however, and if anything the rest of his face seemed to beam with a smile as he observed her. “Hm. Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit.”

            _He can tell that by a mere gander, can he?_ Thought the elf with a small grain of doubt.  It was said that age brought about wisdom.  Synestra wasn’t so sure about that saying, but the man seemed to be proof of it.  However, his friend did not seem as impressed with her.

            “Master Kodlak, you're not truly considering accepting her?”

            _He’s young,_ thought the veteran to herself, trying to swallow down a flicker of rage.  _He is naïve and thinks he knows all.  Every warrior goes through this._  She had been no different in arrogance when she had been in the Great War.  _I thought I could slay even the mightiest daedra that could crawl its way from Oblivion.  He, no doubt, thinks the same of himself._

            “I am nobody's master, Vilkas. And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts,” came the old Nord’s reply.

            “Apologies. But I've never even heard of this outsider,” the ebony-haired Nord said with suspicion lacing his words. _He isn’t even trying to hide his disdain for me,_ thought the High Elf, her scars only deepening her frown.

            “Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart,” Kodlak Whitemane replied sternly, eyes moving to Vilkas.

            “And their arm,” Vilkas reminded him, though his tone had softened considerably, realizing he would not win Kodlak over with rash words.

            “Of course,” Kodlak seemed more pleased with the younger Nord, and his old eyes moved back to Synestra. “How are you in battle, girl?”

            “I can handle myself,” Synestra said in an attempt to be fair to herself and simultaneously modest. 

            “I suppose you didn’t get those scars from spending your days eating sweetrolls,” Kodlak remarked in turn, and looked to Vilkas, “Vilkas, you will take her to the yard and test her.”  As Vilkas accepted his task, the old Nord looked to Synestra, “When you are done, return here.”   

            “Understood,” Synestra answered respectfully.

            Vilkas rose and Synestra was surprised to see he was rather tall for a Nord, his shoulders broad and his arms well-muscled.  His hair fell almost to his shoulders, his jawline full of scruff and his pale eyes focused hard on the High Elf.  She could see he was apprehensive about his task, but she doubted he would object openly to his leader. “Come on then, let us go to the yard,” Vilkas walked away and Synestra followed.

            Down the hall and up the steps, Synestra found that the drinking hall had been largely deserted, save for a single old woman who was cleaning up a spill. The light blinded her as she stepped from beneath the back porch of Jorrvaskr.  Eyes pried upon her- she felt them, ignoring how their gazes made her skin prickle.  Age and experience made her think that her spar against Vilkas would be a cake-walk, but she had been proven wrong countless times.  He seemed to favor the sword and shield, from what she gathered.  _A safe choice,_ considered the High Elf.  _But his arrogance might be the end of him, especially if it accompanies him into the battlefield.  There is always a better warrior.  Somewhere…_ One of her pale golden hands brushed the scars that lined her lips and chin.  Synestra had been _humbled_ through the years.  

            She kept the dark-haired Nord on the side of her good eye, which blazed like a sun against her pale gold skin.  “Ah, fresh blood.  Hope you know how to handle yourself,” remarked the Dunmer nearby, still bloodied and beaten from his punching session with the Nord woman.  Synestra merely gave him a half-blind look before following Vilkas into the practice yard.

            “The old man said to have a look at you, so let’s do this,” he watched her carefully, resting his hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Just have a few swings at me so I can see your form. Don’t worry, I can take it.”

            Synestra’s response was a curt nod, and as Vilkas brandished his engraved shield and sword, the High Elf drew out her steel sword. From her peripherals, she could see the others gathering, flocking to the scene like curious children.  Her scars marred her coy, yet small smile as she lunged for the Nord.

            His shield came at her to block, and she fumbled back a step after throwing her free arm to prevent the blow from hitting her face.  She began to pace around Vilkas, and he followed her doggedly step for step.  The High Elf could hear murmurs between the watchers, a few bets being placed.  As Vilkas came in to strike at her, she parried instantaneously, knocking the blade to the right.  She stepped in but found the shield again, readied to intercept her, and she fell back before she could get another strike in.

            She went back to the pacing method, and before long, Vilkas lashed out again with his sword.  Her sword met his with a flurry of sparks from impact, and the elf pushed Vilkas back, teeth gnashed all the while.  As Vilkas fumbled backwards, Synestra advanced, two blows colliding into the shield as he desperately deflected them.  As she came in closer, he swung his sword at her shoulder.  She dodged to the side, rolling her shoulder back and gave him a wider berth.  

            “You favor the defense,” Vilkas observed.

            “I favor being smart,” Synestra replied blandly, her free hand tightening into a fist as fire formed at her palm.  A blazing orb flew from her hand, crashing into his shield and knocking him down onto his rump.

            “Fire? That’s not fair!” someone remarked from the crowd.

             “There’s no rules in battle.  Not if it is a life or death situation,” Vilkas shot back firmly. Synestra backed a step as the Nord rose, sheathing his sword, “Not bad.  Next time won’t be so easy,” He gave her a half-smile, bending down to pick up his shield, “You might just make it. But for now, you’re still a whelp to us, new blood.  So you do what we tell you.”

            “Understood,” Synestra felt like a soldier again, answering to her commander.  Her single eye watched Vilkas as he walked away, smoothing his ruffled hair back with a grimy hand.  The High Elf followed him back into the shadows of the overhang, the Dunmer noticeably quieter than before.  He sipped his mead quietly, staring after her as she approached the door.

            Kodlak leaned against the doorframe, letting the brisk Skyrim winds into the mead hall without so much as a care.  His aged eyes studied her in silence as she approached, and she caught herself staring at the war paint he had chosen to adorn himself with.  The only markings upon her face were the scars of a hound, sent to find her in the dead of night.  That had been years ago, though she remembered the night well. She’d given the dog-assassin a bigger scar in return- from chin to groin. 

            “You fight well,” Kodlak broke the silence, then beckoned her inside. “Come, new blood.”  Wordlessly, Synestra followed, stepping into Jorrvaskr.

            To the left, the elderly Nord woman was sweeping away leaves that had blown in the doorway.  Synestra’s pointed ears detected some dismayed muttering, but couldn’t decipher what she was saying.  Kodlak leisurely walked past the grand dining table, still covered in crumbs, empty ale bottles, and fruit.  She glanced at the haggard crone again, wondering how she managed to care for such a large group by herself.  The High Elf pitied her, but tried not to let it show.  She had heard once that Nord women were the toughest things in Tamriel, stubborn and more prideful than their male counterparts. 

            Kodlak’s boots against the stairs made an awful creaking noise, and Synestra became aware of how old the mead hall truly was.  Her fiery eye scanned the ancient engravings on the walls and in the woodwork.  There were bowls atop cabinets that were painted with shapes of wolves in pursuit of an elk.  Ancient books lined the shelves with dusted, withering covers, smelling of moths and age.  A weapon rack hung nearby with a steel axe and mace ready for use- polished to perfection.  Synestra’s hand caught the door as Kodlak passed through to the living quarters.  She stepped in after him, letting the ancient wooden door swing shut behind her.  The Nord said nothing as he continued down the hall, past benches, cabinets, living quarters and torches.  

            At the far end of the corridor was where she had found him at first, his glass of golden juice still half-full.  He sat where he had sat before, and Synestra gently sank into the wooden chair across from him, staring down at the half-eaten apple pie that Vilkas had left.

            “Where are you from, Synestra?” Kodlak Whitemane began, clasping the glass with his worn hand and drinking deeply from its contents.

            “Alinor,” she answered at once.  His face carried no response to that, and she corrected herself, “The Summerset Isles.  I forget that is not the name everyone knows it as in Skyrim.”

            “I know it,” Kodlak’s voice wasn’t harsh, but light, friendly.  Synestra had expected a handful of accusations from the sturdy Nord- not a game of questions and answers.  “What city were your born in?”

            “Shimmerene,” Synestra said at once, though it seemed like her days there had been spent by someone else.  It had been a lifetime since she had been to the Summerset Isles.

            “Shimmerene.  It is a splendid name,” Kodlak commented with a smile about his lips.

            “I scarcely remember it,” Synestra admitted, “I was in a fight and I took a club to the head midway through.  Some things have been shaky since then.  But from what little memory I have of it, it is a beautiful city.”  Her parents would still be there, if they still lived at all.  Cutting off ties with the Aldmeri Dominion had made it neigh impossible for her to ever have a chance of seeing them, at least while the Thalmor reigned.

            “I am told the Summerset Isles are a sight to behold.  You have travelled a long way.” Kodlak set the empty goblet down, nodding his head understandingly.  He wiped at his greying beard with the back of a hand, then asked, without so much as looking at her while refilling his glass, “Why did you come to Skyrim, Synestra of Shimmerene?”

            “I was looking for work,” Synestra answered.  He poured her a goblet full of whatever he was drinking, and set it before her.  Apprehensively, she lifted it up, inspecting the butter-colored contents with her left eye.

            “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Kodlak chuckled, “I ask you these things because it is rare for a High Elf to be in Whiterun.  At least an independent one, that is.  Most High Elves are loyal to the Aldmeri Dominion.” He studied her face, then continued on, “I do not question the backgrounds of my shield-siblings.  What they did before is not my concern.  But I am curious as to why you are here of all places.”

            “I fought in the Great War,” Synestra admitted, the words spilling out unchecked.  She hesitated when she realized was she was confessing to, looking at Kodlak steadily with her single good eye, “I was part of the force that sacked the Imperial City, under Lord Naarifin.” Kodlak watched her quietly, not daring to interrupt.  Synestra took a drink of the juice, surprised it wasn’t laced with alcohol or poison, but rushed down her throat and sweetly quenched her thirst.  “I left, before the Battle of the Red Ring, that is.  After the city had been sacked, I realized who I was fighting for.  Or… _what_ , I suppose I should say.”

            She had fought for the wrong side, she knew.  The Dominion preached elven superiority, and for a while her naïve mind had bought their opinions.  Synestra had wanted a better world for her kind, she supposed.  The Thalmor had gone about spewing propaganda that men were trying to end elven rule in their native states, spreading rumors of weakness in the Empire.  She had bought it all in her blind faith.  But the day that the Imperial City had burned, she had been ashamed of her actions.  The sadistic captains had taken prisoners to torture and claim, and Synestra had left the city with their cries still ringing in her ears.  She had desired to be a soldier, not a murderer.  She left Cyrodiil in the dead of night, moving from country to country in order to escape the war she had deserted.  It took years for the Sacking of the Imperial City to finally stop disturbing her dreams just as it took years for the first agent to find her.  Her desertion hadn’t gone unnoticed, and at the time, she had been in the Aldmeri-friendly country of Elsweyr.

            Returning to Cyrodiil had been bittersweet.  For awhile, she found work in Bruma, working as a bodyguard to a Nord family.  When the Thalmor agents had swept the city for Talos worshippers, she had fled, thinking to seek shelter in the cold wilderness of Skyrim.  But the Thalmor were here, even, poisoning everything that they touched.

            “I see,” Kodlak smiled to himself, clearly amused about something.  Synestra finished off the rest of her sweet-tasting drink, and the old Nord said, “I saw you with Irileth.”  Synestra shifted uncomfortably, “You went to fight the dragon, didn’t you?”

            Synestra wordlessly nodded her head, wondering what this meant for her application into the Companions.  Kodlak nodded, lips pursed as he thought, eyes tracing over her face.  “We do our best to keep out of politics,” He began carefully.

            “Politics are not my cup of tea,” Synestra replied. “I have been named as Thane.” This made Kodlak frown, but Synestra added, “I only wish to bring peace to Whiterun.  Not dabble in political affairs that do not concern me.”

            “I see,” Kodlak nodded, “Taking down a dragon is an impressive feat.”  Synestra said nothing in response to his compliment, and he continued after shifting his weight in his wooden chair, “I see no reason why you should not be one of the Companions.  Elves have been part of the Companions for centuries.  A few have even acted as Harbinger. Great War or no… You are accepted. Farkas will show you around the Living Quarters. He may even have a job for you.  Go seek him out.  Speak to me later if you have questions.”

            “Thank you, Harbinger,” Synestra rose from her chair, and departed down the hallway, feeling his eyes prying after her.  She uncomfortably touched the rough skin around her blind right eye, and softly sighed to herself.  In nervous silence, she wished her confession to him had not done his opinion of her any harm.  It would be beneficial to have the leader of the Companions on her side, especially if it did come down to a war against the dragons.  Briefly, she remembered the cloaked Breton woman who had been at Dragonsreach and her ominous theory of the dragons arising from the grave.

            _The Dragonborn could be anywhere in Tamriel,_ thought Synestra gruffly. _We must prepare for the worst._


	24. Subtleties - Part 1

_Hjalmar Bearblood_

_Bandit King_

 

            The Reach was well-known for its mountains, though Hjalmar Bearblood was slightly miffed at the notion that some thoughtless builder had made the roads and pathways slink between the sharp ridges.  _We could just climb over them,_ thought the Bandit King, but he looked at the others in their wearied states and thought better of it.  There were older louts in his crew as well as younger, more spry lads.  Either way, climbing the mountains would be the death of them all.  The sabre cats made their nests in the deepest chills of the north and within the stony crags.  They were vicious, especially when met in pairs, but they were not the only creatures that lurked the mist-capped mountains.

            “There’s something on the ridge,” Sveinn pointed out and Hjalmar’s gut twisted with knowing, his almond eyes lifting. “I think it’s a stag!” The enthusiastic youth drew out his bow but Koli grabbed the boy about the shoulder.

            “Wait!” the red-headed man began, “It’s a—” 

            An arrow whistled past Hjalmar’s ear and thudded into the ground in front of Dagir Blade-Maker. “Forsworn,” the Bandit King said darkly, “Eitri!” He looked to him, but he had already drawn out his steel and oaken bow, the string taut with an arrow at the ready.  It zipped through the air with a high-pitched note, thudding into the Forsworn’s neck.  With a gurgled cry, the savage fell, thudding onto the cobblestone path before them.  Hjalmar was the first to reach the man, dead with the projectile jutting from his throat. Eitri War-Hawk retrieved the arrow, glancing to Sveinn.

            “That’s how you deal with this sort of stag,” the sandy-haired Nord remarked.

            Hjalmar picked off the helmet, a stag’s head with its antlers still secured onto the top of its skull, and let it fall away, “Poorly made.” He gestured to the meager clothing of the savage-like Breton. “Painted face.” The rest that the corpse wore was a vest of bear fur and a kilt to match.  Animal skulls rattled on a tether about his neck—bird skulls, skeever skulls, and the bones of some unknown animal.  Hjalmar laughed humorlessly. _Ulfric wants to employ a bunch of savages that don’t even wield proper steel and armor. This might be a fruitless venture in the end._

            “I hear the Forsworn sometimes cut their own hearts out and burn them to old gods,” Liuflr said quietly, “The gods stitch a briar into their chests and it pulses with magic, brings them back to life again.”

            “That’s nonsense,” Dagir Blade-Maker retorted.

            “They’re savage witches is what they are,” Liuflr shot back.

            “They’re poorly dressed Bretons that hardly have enough clothes to cover their cocks,” Kelda folded her arms. “I see no reason to be scared of them, unless you actually believe a man would cut his own heart out in exchange for a patch o’ weeds.”

            “Shut up!” Liuflr snapped.

            Hjalmar silenced the lot of them with a glare, “And now we know more about them,” said the Bandit King. “We know that they’re ill-equipped and we know they’re at least preying upon travelers.  We will need to be careful, now that it is clear we are in their territory.  Two will keep watch every night while the rest sleep.” It was agreed upon and the Blood Raiders continued along their path.

            Markarth was reached a day and a half later, the rest of their journey being relatively quiet. No Forsworn had dared to disturb them, and for that, Hjalmar was glad. The ancient city of Markarth was embedded in the sides of a mountain, its structures the same white-gray stone as its surroundings.  Gold capped the towers of the city in ancient Dwemer fashion, and moss grew about the base of the frontal towers. Guards clad in the dark green of Markarth loomed over them, armed with axes, bows, and blades.  _They seem vigilant,_ noticed the Nord as he walked toward the doors, the guards doing little to stop them.  Though he could feel them staring him down, they seemed to melt into the stonework, like gargoyles.

            _We are not Bretons, so they do not fear us,_ realized the Nord.  Since Windhelm, they had ditched their characterizing red paint while attempting to act under cover in Markarth.  Even if the Blood Raiders had never wrecked havoc upon the Reach, Hjalmar did not doubt that someone would have heard of him before.  He opened the door into Markarth, wrapping his fur cloak about him tighter as he stepped into the ancient city.

            He was surprised by Markarth’s vertical build.  Everything was built atop of each other, driven hard into the mountainside.  Dwemer design ran rampant in the city, decorated by soft cascades that fell into pools about the carved, stone settlement. A large, towering spire was in Markarth’s heart, looming over the marketplace and entrance as a titan would stand over a mortal human.  The smell of meats and vegetables was the first to hit Hjalmar’s nostrils, and the steady _whoosh_ of waterfalls seemed like background music to the chattering of street vendors and customers.

            “It’s beautiful…” Kelda sounded surprised more than awestruck. “I never realized it would be like this.”

            As much as Hjalmar hated to admit it, she was correct.  The Eastmarch was largely desolate compared to the stony city.  _It’s like a statue of old,_ mused the Bandit King to himself. _Carved to perfection, each curve measured with precision, each dome delicately crafted._ It was unlike the Skyrim that Hjalmar was familiar with.  There were no thatched roofs, no bard music in the streets, no biting cold. Just a mist about the mountain’s peaks, stone, and a faint breeze were all that Markarth had, as well as the noise.

            “Split up,” Hjalmar turned to the others, “We will meet back in an hour, at the local inn, wherever it may be.”

            “I hear they got a Temple to Dibella here in Markarth,” Eitri War-Hawk began, but his leader interrupted him.

            “If I hear you’ve been pestering them, you may lose your sword,” Hjalmar retorted caustically.

            “But Eitri doesn’t _have_ a sword,” Sveinn began and Hjalmar silenced him with a glare. Kelda wordlessly patted the lad’s shoulder, a twisted smile about her pink lips as she began to wander away.

            Hjalmar was hardly paying attention when the first shout rang in his ears.  Turning, the bear of a Nord saw Kelda get pushed back by a man, a glint of silver in his hand.  “For the Forsworn!” came a cry, cutting though the conversations in the market. The Bandit King didn’t feel himself lurch forward, but in a blink, he was there, pulling Kelda away from the stranger and his mouth opening to shout at the dark-haired man. “You!” He was no guard, but nothing good ever came from armed men at marketplaces.   As Hjalmar began forward, the man’s blade found its first victim, the back of a woman, severing her spinal cord.  The dagger sheathed itself to the hilt in her flesh and a shriek of agony ripped through the marketplace.

            Hjalmar’s mighty hands seized the man by the shoulder but the man pulled the dagger out, aiming to stab back at the burgundy-haired Nord.  He leapt back, the scarlet tip jabbing an inch too short of its mark.  The first guard came flying into the fray, mace brandished.  Dagir Blade-Maker pulled Hjalmar away from the scene as the Markarth city watch descended upon the dark-haired killer, maces and axes cleaving him to pieces as he screamed and laughed and swatted at them with his blade feebly.

            “I die for my people!” he screeched, thick blood flowing from his lips and staining his teeth.  A final blow to his forehead from an iron mace silenced him, and the quivering crowd edged away from the mutilated body.

            “Nothing to see here,” a guard waved his hands at the onlookers, trying to disperse them.  “Keep going about your business.”

            The crowd shuffled amongst themselves, murmuring in low voices.  Annoyed, the guard ushered them to leave once more, and the folk on the outskirts began to wander away, expressions grave. “Gods. A woman attacked right on the streets. Are you all right?” a man asked Hjalmar.  His face was painted with dark markings, intricate with designs that were foreign to the Nord.  The stranger was short, his hair a light brown, and his eyes dark in color.  He wore simple clothing and a basic-looking knife hung at his hip. 

            _He’s a Breton, like the Forsworn._ Perhaps he was an agent of Madanach’s?  Hjalmar feared he was being too hopeful in his guess. “Aye,” He answered, “He missed me. Strange, though, he yelled something about the Forsworn. I wasn’t aware that they were still a threat to Markarth after their leader was killed.”

            “The Forsworn? Strange,” agreed the Breton man with a thoughtful nod.  He clapped Hjalmar on the upper arm heartily, bidding him farewell. “Well, I hope the Eight give you more peace in the future, for what it's worth.  Though, I think you dropped this, friend.  Some note.  Looks important.” Hjalmar wasn’t sure where the man had pulled the scrap of parchment from, but it seemed to materialize in his palm.

            “I don’t think this is mine,” Hjalmar began apprehensively.

            “Must have fallen out of your pocket,” the Breton said with a shrug. “Well, enjoy your stay here.  I promise things aren’t that gruesome around here.” With a wave, the stranger walked away, merging into the dispersing crowd.

            “A note, eh?” Dagir Blade-Maker raised his bushy brows.

            “Shouldn’t you lot be on your way to finding out more information?” Hjalmar asked, unfurling the note.

            “Eitri, Liuflr, Sveinn, and Koli all left already, but I think Eitri has half a mind to take Sveinn to the Temple of Dibella, even after your threat,” Dagir Blade-Maker said ruefully.

            “And besides, I was too busy almost getting stabbed,” Kelda folded her arms, peering over Hjalmar’s shoulder.

            “You ought to be more thankful, lass,” Hjalmar retorted with a sly smirk.

            “My _hero,_ ” Kelda said sweetly, leaning upon his shoulder.  He didn’t dare move her; instead, the broad-shouldered Nord looked down at the note, scribbled quickly and messily.

 

“Meet me at the Shrine of Talos.”

~Eltrys

 

            “That’s not cryptic in the slightest,” Kelda remarked aloud.

            “The Shrine of Talos,” Dagir’s face creased with worry, “Sounds to me like some Thalmor trap.  They pull schemes like this.  Getting others to go to worship Talos, then cutting them down where they stand.  Despicable.”

            “We’re in Markarth, there are Thalmor agents everywhere,” Hjalmar agreed quietly, ushering for them to step away from the market’s center. “But I am curious.  This note is indeed not mine.  I believe the man who found it is its author.  It is sloppily written and his attitude was… different.”

            Dagir Blade-Maker did not seem impressed by this idea. He did not voice his protest, but it was evident in his dark eyes as he glowered at the Bandit King, arms folded across his chest.  _He’s always been like an advisor,_ realized Hjalmar to himself. _He’s a blade-forgerer, aye, but there’s wisdom about him that I’ve never had._ But Dagir was cautious.  Perhaps that was why he was alive after so many years.  His arms held scars he did not wish to talk about, and his eyes had a certain drained look to them.

            “I will go,” Hjalmar said with resolve, “Kelda, you will scour the marketplace.  Dagir, go to the inn and see if you can’t get a few drunks talking.”

            “Aye,” Kelda said dutifully and strutted away without a second thought.

            “Aye…” said Dagir, hesitant, but walked away all the same, protest still strong in his dark gaze.

            It took awhile for Hjalmar Bearblood to navigate the maze that was Markarth. Everything was built upwards, and staircases wound their way through the rocky terrain. The Shrine of Talos was hidden away, embedded into the central rocky spire beneath the Temple to Dibella.  Hjalmar was unnerved about entering, but he forced himself to push the doors open all the same, hand straying near his axe. _If it is the Thalmor… then I suppose I’ll just aid Ulfric by letting a few of them lose their heads…_  

            A statue of Talos greeted him as he wandered down the stairs.  The room was dimly-lit, with an assortment of candles surrounding the statue. _Freshly-lit, no doubt.  Someone’s been down here, perhaps even paying tribute…_ Hjalmar thought to himself. He stopped when he saw the Breton with the elegant face-paint, and felt a smugness warm his features. “I had a feeling,” the bearish Nord remarked with a chime of satisfaction in his voice.

            “I wasn’t very subtle,” the Breton smiled wryly, arms folded.

            “But are you alone?” Hjalmar inquired, candlelights casting strange shadows upon the stone walls.

            “Yes.”

            “Then I was right again... Eltrys, was it?”

            The painted Breton seemed amused, his hazel irises glittering in the dimness of the shrine. “I’m sorry to drag you into Markarth’s problems, but after that attack in the market, I’m running out of time.” There was a quiver to his voice as he spoke, growing with each word.  His gaze darted about the darkness, and he stepped forward, away from the wall. “You’re an outsider. You’re dangerous looking.  You’ll do,” Eltrys muttered, observing Hjalmar as though he were a horse to be bought.

            “For what?”

            He gave a humorless laugh, shuddering and rubbing his eyes, “You want answers? Well so do I. So does everyone in this city. A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he's a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess.” Eltrys ran his hands through his long hair at this, a slight twitch in his fingers. “Gods, I can’t believe I’m even doing this…” _He’s scared of something.  Someone.  Perhaps, he’s scared of being killed._ “This has been going on for years. And all I've been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please. You find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you bring me.”

             “Weylin?” Hjalmar asked, scratching at his beard.

            “The man who stabbed her—the… the woman in the market.”

            “I am not here to solve murders, lad,” Hjalmar folded his arms, feeling a small ounce of pity. _But one would wonder why he wouldn’t just try to move on to another city.  The roads are perilous, aye, but it seems as though this city is as well._ “But I am here because of the Forsworn, so for that, I will aid you.  But you will have to be calm.” His voice lost its gentleness, “And you will have to tell me all that you know of this.”

            “I’ve been looking into the murders for some time now,” began the painted Breton after taking in a deep breath.  His voice still trembled with anxiety. “It all started when I was a boy. My father owned one of the mines. Rare for anyone who isn't a Nord. He was killed. Guards said it was just a madman, but everyone knew the murderer was a member of the Forsworn. I've been trying to find out why ever since. Gotten nowhere so far, and then I got married. Have a child of my own on the way. I swore I was going to just give up, for my child's sake, but it's like my father's ghost is haunting me. Asking me why it happened…”

            “Who is Weylin?  Yes, I know he was the lad in the market, but who was he really?  A citizen?” Hjalmar prompted.

            “He was one of the smelter workers. I used to have a job down there myself, casting silver ingots. I never knew much about Weylin, except he lives in the Warrens, like all the other workers,” Eltrys informed him, much calmer this time, “I’m… I’m sorry about all of this.  It just seems as though there’s something really going on here.”

            “And the woman who was killed?”

            “She's not from Markarth. The air about her screamed "outsider." Visitors to the city usually stay at the Silver-Blood Inn.”

            “A random death, then, perhaps,” Hjalmar murmured, “To keep the denizens of Markarth in constant fear of the Forsworn?  No… there is always a method to madness.” He was no detective, but war tactics and murder were not far from each other. _There is a need to visit both these Warrens and the Silver-Blood Inn, it seems.  It is just as good of a starting place as any other._

            “Be very careful,” Eltrys warned him quietly, “The guards are a suspicious lot, and I don’t think they like outsiders too much.”

            “Aye, we tend to bring trouble,” Hjalmar grinned savagely, “But all the same, I will begin an investigation.”

            “Thank you…” Eltrys nodded graciously, “I will be around town.  But… I’ll be back here.  Tonight.  Come see me with whatever information you’ve gathered.”

            “I’ll do that…” Hjalmar agreed, and departed the shrine with thoughts swimming about his clustered mind.  The brisk air from the mountains caught his mane of burgundy hair and he looked up at the stony jagged peaks looming overhead, their caps swirling with wisps and clouds.

            _I almost would prefer it if the guards had recognized me to this game of shadows and knives,_ Hjalmar thought to himself. _I am no detective.  I am a bandit.  I am usually the one doing the killing, not tracing it back to its roots._ He chuckled at himself, and imagined his father having quite a laugh at his situation. _Shut up, old man.  You forget who is the one rotted in their grave, and who still lives._ The Bandit King passed by the clean-up crew, a couple of guards and a woman clad in the robes of a priestess, an amulet of Arkay about her nape.

            He looked away, the stench of blood, waste, and death heavy in the air, and wove his way towards one of the many houses set in stone. _But to find the inn, that will be the trick._ Everything looked the same, he thought with a slight huff, lost and irritated.  _They should make more signs.  These stairs are insufferable,_ he thought, the breeze carrying droplets.  As the water splattered onto his face, he wiped it away with a slight scowl.

            “Excuse me,” he felt the hand grab his shoulder before he saw the man, and the Bandit King’s muscles tightened under his cloak. He stayed his hand, though it fought to grab the hilt of his greatsword, and turned his almond eyes to the stranger. “Do you know anything about this house?” He inquired, voice like a carriage’s wheels upon gravel. Nose like a hawk’s beak and skin softly tanned, he reeked of his southern-heritage. _Imperial_ , thought the Nord with a slight scowl. _But not a Legionnaire._ He was relieved at that, eyes skirting about his faded blue sash over his gray armor. _A knight of some sort?_

            “No, I do not,” Hjalmar replied, grateful that the man released his shoulder. “I have just arrived in Markarth.  Looking for a place to stay.”

            “Ah, well… May Stendarr travel with you,” the man nodded to him and added, “The Silver-Blood Inn is that way, around the corner.  Let me know if you hear anything about this house.  It’s said to have been used for Daedric worship and strange lights were seen inside.”

            “I will try to remember,” Hjalmar nodded, all the while thinking to himself: _I do not think it would be wise to enter that house.  I will make a note of that for the future._ Daedra were a strange group, self-serving and ruthless to the bone. Little good happened to those that pursued them, especially with belligerent intentions.  He found the Silver-Blood Inn near the marketplace, the aroma of murder still wafting about the air.  But the hearth in the inn was far more welcoming, along with the scent of roasted pig.

            Dagir was at the bar, talking with an elderly Nord woman working behind the bar. Hjalmar approached, sliding into a chair next to his friend. “Fancy seeing you here,” Dagir remarked in a stoic voice, sipping into his warm drink. “Find anything?”

“Yes and no,” Hjalmar replied with a cryptic smile. “You?”

            “Only that this has been going on for some time and that no one really likes to talk about it,” Dagir Blade-Maker muttered back.

            “It depends on who you talk to,” Hjalmar said quietly, drumming his fingers lightly against the wooden bar. “Milady,” the Nord called softly, turning his dark eyes to the woman behind the bar, who was busy cleaning a few mugs, “Might I inquire as to if a lady named Margret stayed here the past few nights?”

            The Nord woman on the far side of the bar raised her brows, wet up to the elbow with water and soap. “Aye…” She said carefully, blowing a twig of graying hair from her eyes. “She did.”

            “Which room did she stay in?” Hjalmar asked politely.

            “The nicest one we have.  Had the coin for it, too.  I was surprised,” the lady replied.

            “Why is that?” Hjalmar frowned.

            “Seemed dressed in awfully shabby clothes when she arrived here,” the lady moved onto the plates, averting her gaze from the Nord men at the bar. “Didn’t seem like the type to have the coin, if you ask me.”

            “Maybe I could rent it?” Hjalmar offered, pulling a pouch from his cloak, “If it isn’t too much to ask, that is.”

            Her suspicious gaze fell on him like a murder of crows upon a corpse, gray brows furrowed and lip curled.  Wrinkles deepening with a mixture concern and curiosity, the woman reached over and took the pouch, weighing it in her hand.  With deft fingers, she untied it, peeked inside and stifled a small gasp of shock before tying it back closed. “Well,” She began, eyes flitting about the room cautiously, “I suppose Margret isn’t going to be using it any longer.”

            “Thank you,” Hjalmar smiled and rose from his chair.

            “It’s the last one, in the back,” the woman added and Hjalmar went to investigate, Dagir close on his heels.

            “Ulfric is training you well to be a good guardsmen,” Dagir complained and Hjalmar glared at him over his shoulder.  The blacksmith huffed to himself, a scowl about his dark scruffles as they traversed the stone corridor.

            The backmost room had the same ornate door as all of the others, but its size indicated that it was a luxury suite.  A couch area, a bath, and a huge downy bed were all key features of Margret’s suite, which still contained her belongings.  Papers were scattered about the table, a large bag was partially open to reveal silks and linens, and a few books were stacked in the corner of a nightstand.  “Search the area,” Hjalmar commanded and began towards the table.

            Notes and letters were scattered haphazardly about the surface, each full of black ink scribbles that Hjalmar could scarcely make out.  They were notes, reminders primarily.  One was a shopping list of things to purchase in Markarth, while another seemed to be an agenda.  The Bandit King picked the second piece of parchment up, reading it over quietly.

 

 

_“Meeting to see Thonar Silver-Blood tomorrow.  
_

_Write back to Gen. T._

_Must take carriage back by the fifth day.”_

 

            “Gen… T,” murmured the Nord aloud, and was about to pick up another piece of paper when Dagir cleared his throat.  Hjalmar looked up, brows raised as the blacksmith handed him a leather-bound book. “I’m not one for classics, Dagir.” Remarked the bandit. “I find most of them boring.”

            “It’s what all girls keep in their nightstand,” Dagir retorted and when Hjalmar gave him a quizzical look, the blacksmith explained irately, “A _diary_.”

            “A diary,” Hjalmar remarked with a scoff about his breath. “Seems too simple, I dislike it.” _All girls keep a diary in their nightstand?_  He wondered if Kelda had a diary… he wondered what she would write about, if she even knew how to spell or write at all.  _Likely things that would make the Lust Argonian Maid seem like a child’s storybook,_ thought the Bandit King with a smirk as he opened the journal and began thumbing through the pages.

            There were trivialities listed amid the pages—talking of her dog, her house in Solitude, her family back in Cyrodiil.  It talked of the pie she had eaten that day, the cute Nord who had smiled at her, and her first impressions of Markarth.  The final page drew his attention, as it was written in the same hurried scribbles as the notes on the table, different from the planned and elegant entries in the diary previously.

 

 

  
_“_ _Meeting at the Treasury House later today. Took them long enough. These people act like they own everything._ _  
_

_Thonar Silver-Blood is the younger brother, but he's obviously the one in charge. Makes all the deals, bullies local landowners into selling to him. Even employs that wispy girl at the door to deter "trouble-makers" like me.  
_

_General Tullius is growing impatient, but I'll bring back the deed to Cidhna Mine. On my life, I won't allow a group of Stormcloak sympathizers to own the prison to the most notorious criminals of the Reach. They say no one escapes. Why? Is it really that secure?  
_

_Maybe I've played my hand too soon by rushing the confrontation with Thonar. There are shadows around every corner in this city, and I know I'm being watched.”_

 

            “She was a spy for the Legion,” realized Hjalmar, head snapping in Dagir’s direction. “She was going to buy the mine from the Silver-Bloods, and under General Tullius’ command.”

            “Then perhaps it’s fortunate that she died,” Dagir Blade-Maker suggested with a shrug, “The Silver-Bloods are rich, aye, and from what I’ve heard, they don’t seem so fond of Jarl Igmund and his Thalmor masters.”

            “Thonar is somehow responsible for her death.  Perhaps he is sending others out to assassinate his economical foes under the guise of being a Forsworn?” Hjalmar guessed aloud, tucking the journal under his arm. “We will have to go pay Thonar a visit, I think.”

            “We can’t be hasty with this,” Dagir warned him, “Provoke Thonar and Ulfric may lose the Silver-Bloods.  And that won’t look good on your name.  Not that there’s many redeeming qualities as is.”

            Hjalmar nodded in agreement, “There is another lead; the Warrens, where the killer in the streets used to live.  It might be a stretch to find much there, but we could press it before we confront Thonar.”

            “We’ll need to regroup and inform the others of this,” Dagir added.

            “It is about that time, I suppose,” Hjalmar sighed, “Either way, I fail to see this going well.  If the Silver-Bloods are having others killed for meddling, we might as well be inviting them to shove daggers into our backs if we pursue this course.”

            “Does danger frighten you, Hjalmar?  That is not the Bandit King that I know,” Dagir raised his brows.

            “I am not frightened,” Hjalmar smiled back, eyes alight with amusement. “Things are dull without demise at our doorstep.  The excitement keeps our hearts young and our blades sharp.” Dagir seemed wearied by that thought, but the Bandit King ignored his morose sigh.  Instead, his dirt-stained thumbs fumbled through the pages of the journal still in his hand, and he moved it aside.  He thought to have Kelda keep some of the silks and linens Margret had left behind; the dresses would do no one good laying strewn about the floor or stuffed hastily away in suitcases. _Getting her into a dress would be a labor I am not sure I would be willing to undergo,_ Hjalmar thought, and a small smile crept onto his lips. _Or… perhaps it would be a labor I would be all too willing to undergo._ He hid his silent glee from Dagir by averting his gaze, instead, focusing on the stone walls of the suite. _Either way, I paid money for this room, and I do not intend to let that money be wasted._


	25. Subtleties - Part 2

_Knife_

 

         _Why did he insist that I do this?_ Thought the Breton to herself as she ducked under the woman’s swing.  The second strike pushed the lithe thief back a step and left a mark upon her leather-clad shoulder. Brynjolf had been all smiles and polite talk when she had gotten to the Ragged Flagon, though she had learned quickly he was only buttering her up so he could pawn a job off on her.  He had promised her entry into the Thieves Guild should she collect the debts of three of Riften’s citizens.  Sure, it had sounded easy enough, but only because the other two had been willing to pay up (after some coarse conversation, that is).

            Haelga had been less-than cheerful when Knife had ordered for her to give her the money.  The Nord woman had been downright pissed when the Breton had seized her golden statue of Dibella and had threatened to toss it out the window. Haelga had given the money, but when Knife’s back had turned, she’d gotten a fist to the back of the head.  That was when the enraged woman had fallen upon her with swings and snapping teeth. 

            “Divines ABOVE you are a BITCH,” Knife had sputtered after she had kicked the woman hard in the gut, sending her back.  The patrons of the bunkhouse had gathered around and while Knife was quietly fretting that the guards would take notice, she was equally upset about the blood smear about her mouth, and fervently wiped it away as she backed a step.

            Haelga had the blood of a Nord, the spirit of a warrior, and the vengeance of a typical woman.  Her blonde hair was ruffled, disheveled, and partially in her eyes.  Knife had the advantage there, though crimson had streaked its way from a cut on her lip clear across to her ear in a strange painted smile.  The keeper of the bunkhouse snarled, yelling something about wanting her money back, but Knife took the time to ram the taller woman head-on, pushing, shoving and kicking frantically at her shins. _Brynjolf said no knives, Brynjolf said no knives…_ thought the Breton over and over again as her fingers twitched to grab her daggers. _Brynjolf said no deaths…_ And suddenly, a smile wormed its way onto Knife’s bloodied mouth.

            The blonde woman punched at her, face wrought in a vicious sneer, and Knife side-stepped, catching the arm and taking care to light Haelga’s sleeve as she brushed her clothing. With a hop back, Knife let the woman shriek out in horror. “And that’s my cue to leave.” Breathed the Breton, licking away the metallic-tasting liquid from her lip as she patted the pouch of gold in her pocket. _Brynjolf will be satisfied to see this…_ and she would officially secure a rank in the Thieves Guild.

            Haelga was still shrieking by the time that Knife walked out of the Bunkhouse, though two of the workers had gone to fetch water to put out the small flame that was eating its way through her clothes.  It would burn her forearm at the most, though Knife secretly hoped the bitch would be scarred from the event. _No one attacks while someone’s back is turned, what a bitch…_ She might’ve whistled had her lip not been throbbing and threatening to puff up.  Knife made her way down the steps and into the Ratway without a second thought.

            She walked with less care than she had the first time.  The echoes in the corridors scared her as much as a mouse did; most of the voices were distant and she preferred to keep it that way.  Brynjolf had given her directions to a shortcut, and she took the path, crossing over a small bridge she had not noticed before, and letting the shadows consume her as she stole her way through the stone tunnels.  Her boots softly splashed in some of the murky water, but nothing leapt from the darkness in rage. The body of the man she had slain had been removed by someone; she wasn’t sure who was strong enough to move such a hulking figure, and she didn’t care to know.  There were whispers of cannibals in the Ratway, though they were supposedly deeply locked away, favoring the darkness.

            The Ragged Flagon greeted her with the stale stench of piss, alcohol, grime, and apple pie. It was a strange combination, but apparently the others had grown accustomed to it over the years.  The hidden bar was largely empty, though a few others were loitering about.  A Redguard woman was having a slice of pie at the bar, while an Imperial was checking some crates that looked as though they had been recently shipped in from somewhere.  Hidden under a cloak was a Bosmer woman, watching under her hood with black eyes as she sipped at a mug. 

            Brynjolf rose from the table when she approached the bar, his eyes alight. “So, job’s done?” Knife nodded and handed him the pouch. “Damn, why is it every time you walk in, it’s like you’ve been beaten to Oblivion?” He chuckled softly and the Breton blushed faintly.

            “Well, maybe you shouldn’t send a short-ass Breton girl to do your dirty work,” Knife retorted back sassily, “I just got out of a brawl with that stupid Haelga lady.  And I’ll be lucky if I don’t have a black eye!”

            “She’s a feisty one,” Brynjolf laughed, “You’ll have time to see to your wounds, lass.” He handed her a napkin of worn cloth, and she took it, despite its roughness against her face.  As she mopped up the blood, he studied her, “You did it clean though, eh?  I like that.”

            “I caught Haelga’s sleeve on fire, but her gown’s the only casualty,” Knife replied nonchalantly.

            “I see,” his mouth twisted in a smirk. “Well, no corpses is a good thing.  Dumping bodies and keeping guards quiet is expensive.”

            “I can imagine,” Knife remarked, wiping the last bit of blood from her mouth. “So, what’s next?”

            “Well, judging from how well you handled those shopkeepers, I would say you’ve done more than simply prove yourself.  We need people like you in our outfit,” Brynjolf scratched at his facial hair. “There are a lot of thieves in the world, but there aren’t a lot of _good_ thieves.”

            “Go on,” Knife prompted.

            Brynjolf’s smile widened and he chuckled, “You’re an odd one, I’ll grant you that.  But you’re good at what you do.  You have sharp instincts and a quick hand.  That’s the kind of stuff this place needs to see.”  He let that sink in for a moment before he asked, “Well?  You want in on this little group?”

            “As long as you don’t send me to brawl any more Nord women, I’m game,” Knife responded with a thin smirk.

            The Nord laughed at her and lightly clapped her shoulder, “I’ll keep that in mind, lass.  You’ll fit in fine around here, I think.  I suppose it’s time for the tour, though.  Might as well show you what we’re all about.” Knife nodded in agreement and the brown-haired Nord began away from her, beckoning for her to follow him.  He walked to the right side of the bar, stepping around the corner, into a dimly-lit corridor of rough, damp stone.  She followed him quietly, still clutching the bloodied rag he’d given her as he opened a wooden door at the end of the hall.

            High ceilings and filtered light greeted Knife in the next room, the smell of urine and alcohol fading away.  She looked up, arching her neck back as she stared at the sunlight trickling down from a grate overhead.  It was warm on her face, despite the cold, dampness of the massive room. “Wow…” She commented, letting her eyes adjust to the brightness. 

            “The cistern,” Brynjolf said, “The Flagon’s just a part of our operation.  This is where the beds are, the archery practice is, the loot… Everything.”

            He was right; off in the corner, near the water, were lines of wooden beds, generic and crumbling from age. Water cascaded from a tunnel in the higher reaches of the wall, spraying the dark floor lightly nearby.  Trunks and chests lay scattered by the beds, and across the water, she saw a massive desk, its surface covered with objects in stacks.  _Books…_ she realized, tilting her head to the side. _Just… a lot of books._   They were all probably ancient tomes, worth tons of money.  _Or copies of the Lusty Argonian Maid._ She snorted to herself, shoving the bloodied rag into her pocket.

            A lone figure stood at the center of the cistern, on a platform connected by stone walkways. Brynjolf walked forward, his air of confidence slowly dwindling with each step.  She felt him tense as he stepped into the light, next to the man in the cistern’s middle, his arms folded. Knife followed him quickly, careful not to fall into the water.

            “Mercer? This is the one I was talking about... our new recruit,” Brynjolf began tentatively.

            “This better not be another waste of the Guild’s resources, Brynjolf,” replied the man gruffly and Knife felt a stirring in her chest, uneasiness nipping at her mind. He turned to look at her, and she hesitated before stepping forward.  Mercer was a gray-haired Breton, his face wrinkling lightly and his eyes hard as stone. A light veil of once-yellow scruff was scattered about his chin and nape, adding to his scraggly appearance.

            “Knife, this is Mercer Frey, our Guildmaster,” Brynjolf ignored his snide disposition, though a frown was evident on the Nord’s face.

            _I don’t like him,_ thought a deeper part of her, and yet, her logical side couldn’t decipher why.  He seemed to stare through her, his eyes squinted ever so slightly with suspicion and malice. Lip curled in a sneer, he let his eyes flick to Brynjolf before they rested back on her, pinning her like needles. _He’s just a grumpy old man,_ thought Knife in reassurance. _He probably hates all of the new recruits._

            “Before we continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. If you play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules and you lose your share. No debates, no discussions... you do what we say, when we say.  Do I make myself clear?” His eyes narrowed when he looked at her, and Knife’s uncertainty began growing rapidly, her heart pounding in her ears.

            “I understand,” She managed, his hawk’s gaze piercing into her green irises.

            Before Mercer could reply, Brynjolf stepped in between them, “Wait a moment, you're not talking about _Goldenglow_ , are you? Even our little Vex couldn't get in and she’s the best burgular we have.”

            “You claim this _recruit_ possesses an aptitude for our line of work. If so, let her prove it,” Mercer Frey snapped at the Nord, his needle-eyes flitting to Brynjolf before turning back to the Breton girl. “Goldenglow Estate is _critically_ important to one of our largest clients. However, the owner has suddenly decided to take matters into his own hands and shut us out. He needs to be taught a lesson. Brynjolf will provide you with the details.”

            “Mercer, I don’t think this is-” Brynjolf insisted in a grave voice.

            “You don’t think, that is your problem,” Mercer rolled his eyes, “This is an ideal test for our prodigal thief here.  Isn’t that what you called her?  You said she could put some of our veterans to shame here.  So let’s see it.” He tossed a gander at Knife and added, “Oh and if you muck this up, you get to answer to our client, and from what I’ve heard, she’s not very forgiving.”

            Brynjolf’s _huff_ was audible, but Knife merely nodded, biting at her lip and feeling the sting from the cut.  “Good luck, lass,” the Nord muttered to her, and as Mercer turned away, Brynjolf added, “Aren’t you forgetting something, Guildmaster?”

            “Hmm? Oh, yes. Since Brynjolf assures me you'll be nothing but a benefit to us, then you're in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild,” Mercer Frey added carelessly over his shoulder.

            “I’m… I’m in?” Knife’s eyes widened.  In all reality, once she had returned from Haelga’s bunkhouse, she had little doubt they would deny her.  Meeting Mercer had twisted the optimism into painful pessimism however, and the news sent her heart leaping with relief and joy.

            “Aye,” Brynjolf mustered a smile, “You are.  And you’ll need the proper armor as well.  Tonilia should have it for you, I think.  She’s the Redguard at the Flagon.  Go to her then we’ll talk about you’re next assignment.”  He paused as she turned away, then added, “And don’t forget to introduce yourself to the others.  They’re a bit off their rockers, but they’re good folk for the most part.”

            Knife wandered her way back to the Ragged Flagon, trying to contain her excitement as she passed by the bar.  Tonilia was a curt looking woman, who sipped mead in a metal mug and had her ebony hair thrown back in a messy bun.  A look of disdain was shot at Knife as the Breton approached, though she tried not to let the thinly-built woman daunt her too much. As the thief opened her mouth to talk, the wiry Redguard retorted, “Vekel and me, we have a thing going. Try anything with him and it'd be bad for your health.”

            The Breton’s mouth closed and she quirked her brows in confusion, “I… I don’t even know who Vekel is, sorry…” _Rude._ “But I was supposed to find a _Tonilia_ to get my new armor.”

            “That’ll be me,” Tonilia replied, her expression softening, “Sorry, too many floozies come down here, trying to crawl all over the desperate men.  The Flagon’s for business and the Thieves Guild, not for whores and hussies.”

            “I’m not a—” Knife began.

            “A hussy? No, but I thought it was better to be safe than sorry,” Tonilia retorted, “Your armor’s going to be small, I see.  Good thing I have a few smalls then.” She rose from her chair and began to sort through a nearby chest, “I usually keep a good amount of merchandise down here, just in case the Guild needs it.  I’m the fence, by the way, though I suppose no one had the sense to tell you that before they shipped you my way. Come across anything you didn’t exactly own in the first place and send it my way.  I have connections all over Tamriel and someone’s always looking for something.”

            “And you happen to have lots of armor?” Knife raised her brows.

            “There used to be more thieves down here, and more demand for it.  There’s a bunch left over from the old days,” Tonilia replied, fishing out a set of bracers. “Try those.”

            Knife obeyed, listening to the chatty Redguard talk as she fought with the bracers. “We’ve had a bit of ill-luck lately.  Some say it’s because we’ve angered a god, some say it’s just a coincidence.  Others think the guards have gotten smarter; I don’t know who came up with that idea, but they’re an idiot. These guards have had their heads up their asses for decades now, they didn’t just suddenly get smart and they probably never will.  Try these boots.”

            The Breton replaced her worn black knee-high boots with the brown ones, finding them more comfortable on her feet. “I won’t ask you to try this armor on out here.  Delvin’s known to go peeking, even when he’s told not to—just ask Vex. Anyways, there’s a room to the left over there.” Knife took the leather armor, surprisingly light in her arms, and slipped into the abandoned room.  It was a pantry of sorts, filled with large wedges of cheese, bread, and bottles of wine. 

            She stripped off her tunic and pants quickly, wincing as the cloth scrapped a forming bruise from Haelga’s fist on her shoulder.  The Breton looked over her arm quickly, wincing at a few purple splotches that were starting to mark her fair skin. _People in this town are either brutal, talkative, or just plain weird,_ she thought as she put the armor and new tunic on.  The pants went on next, after the boots had been taken off, the legging armor after.  Overall, it was a decent fit, though Knife’s favorite was the hood. _I feel like a true thief now,_ she thought with a small laugh to herself, messing with the hood and pulling it down over her face. The girl put on the boots once more and stepped out, fiddling with the bracers, which she suspected might have been a little too small for her arms.

            The armor clung to her more than the tunic had, but it was light overall.  Pockets and belts adorned it, which she supposed was a good thing.  _The pockets are deep enough to carry a large enough supply of gold.  Maybe even a few small items._ She smiled, strapping the knives she carried to the belt about her waist. _It feels right,_ she thought, flexing her arms in the armor and grinning.  

            Brynjolf was chatting away with Tonilia by the time she stepped back out of the pantry, and he gave a small whistle of approval.  The Redguard woman shot him an apprehensive look, and he rolled his shoulders with a harmless smile, “She certainly looks like one of us now.” 

            “I like it, but the bracers might be a tad small,” Knife admitted, and Tonilia began rummaging for another pair in her giant chest of goods.  She sat down next to Brynjolf, and the Nord spread out a map before her.

            “This is the Rift,” he explained, “And this is Goldenglow Estate, a manor located in the midst of Lake Honrich, right outside of the city.  The Estate is located on one island, the other two are used for honey bees.”

            “Bees?” Knife raised an eyebrow.

            “Their honey is farmed here, and makes a large enough profit,” Brynjolf answered with the dip of his head. At this time, Tonilia had found a second set of bracers and exchanged them for the pair Knife had. As the Breton fastened them to her arms, the Nord continued, “I’d ask Vex about how she tried to get in. The word is that the owner, a Bosmer by the name of Aringoth, has hired a force of mercenaries to guard him.  So you’ll have to be careful on your approach to the estate.”

            “But what do you want me to do once I get there?” Knife asked him.

            “Burn three honey bee hives,” Brynjolf said with a simple shrug.

            “Burn what?” Knife asked, flabbergasted.

            “Three honey bee hives,” Brynjolf repeated.

            “You want me to burn their _homes_?” Knife inquired, a touch of sadness in her voice. “That’s kind of sad.  Not to mention that they’ll probably, I don’t know, try to sting me to death after.”

            “Burn them then jump into the lake?” Brynjolf suggested lightly. “There’s also a vault on the estate, large sums of money included.  Take the key off Aringoth and it’s ours.  Just make sure the elf doesn’t die.  He can’t suffer that way, and our client wants him to be miserable.”

            “I… Okay,” Knife nodded, blowing a tuft of auburn hair from her eyes. “Sure, I guess.”

            “Go talk to Vex, then be sure to be adequately supplied before you head over.  Vex almost died trying to get in,” he warned her and Knife found herself wandering about the cistern shortly after. _I’ll leave tomorrow,_ thought the thief to herself as she put her pack down on a nearby bed, exhaling. _I’ve already gotten beaten up today; I don’t need to be almost murdered and stung to death by bees._

            She collapsed onto the bed with a blissful smile, closing her jade eyes and sighing dreamily.  The darkness fell onto her face before she heard the voice, and the Breton jolted upright, forehead smacking into the chin of a tall man. “Ow!” he yelped, rubbing his face, “You’re a flighty one.”

            “And you apparently have no personal space,” the Breton remarked, rubbing her forehead. _First the Nord woman, now this... this…_ This what?  She drew her head back, blinking back the pain, and lifted her gaze from his crotch (all the while failing to not blush) to his face. 

            He was a stranger, with a mop of brown hair, and scruff about his face—reminding her of Brynjolf.  But the man was shorter, his hair the color of bark on a tree, and his mouth curled in a dopey smile. “My name’s Rune,” he extended his hand and she shook it awkwardly, the other still nursing her throbbing forehead. “Yeah, rune, just like what you’re thinking.  A rock.”

            “My name is Knife,” she replied bluntly, “Like a knife.”

            “You don’t say?” Rune asked in surprise, then pointed over his shoulder. “That there is Sapphire.  Like the-”

            “Jewel,” Knife finished, peering around his muscular torso to see a woman with dark hair flowing about her shoulders.  She was busy trailing a finger about the surface of the water, a distant look in her eyes. The Breton looked back to Rune, the pain in her head ebbing away. “So we all have weird names here.”

            “Eh, I guess so,” Rune shrugged, “There’s also Thrynn, Vipir, Niruin, Cynric… well, there’s a lot of us down here.  And we all don’t know you, so Cynric and Vipir made me come over and say hi.”

            “ _Made_ you?  Am I that scary?” Knife asked.

            “It’s… Not that,” Rune replied with a small chuckle, biting at his lip. “It’s just… we don’t get many girls down here.”

            Suddenly Knife remembered what Tonilia had said about the hussies and floozies, “I’m not a hussy, Tonilia can confirm that, so can Brynjolf,” the Breton said quickly, “I was accepted into the Guild by Mercer.”

            “Oh… Oh no, no, no, no, we didn’t think…” Rune shook his head vigorously as a shorter, Breton man walked over.  The stranger gave the taller Rune a smack upon the head.

            “Don’t mind him.  We’re just curious as to who you are, that’s all.  Brynjolf was bragging about you, but it’s not often that new folk come down here,” the Breton explained, “What’s your name?”

            “Knife,” she replied, studying him.  He was older than her, perhaps around Brynjolf’s age.  His hair was dark black, his irises a pale aquamarine, and a dark, wooden bow was in one of his hands.

            “Well, Knife, my name is Cynric Endell…” began the Breton, a smile creeping onto his face, “And that’s my bed you’re sitting on.”

            “I… Oh,” Knife stood up quickly, dusting herself off, “Sorry… I didn’t know…” She stammered, wincing, “I mean… there wasn’t a sign… or anything… really…”

            Cynric and Rune laughed heartily and the Breton girl felt her face flush with redness. The archer looked down at her, shaking his head, “It’s fine, you’re new.  That one is free over there,” he gestured to a bed a few yards away. “If you’d like it that is.  If not, I guess you could sleep in mine.” She removed her bag from the bed and awkwardly scratched the back of her neck.

            “I’ll take that one over there, thanks…” She mumbled uncomfortably.

            “But, hey, welcome to the family,” Rune added cheerily, a grin on his face. “And don’t mind Mercer, he’s been in a bad mood for years now.  I don’t think he remembers how to smile.  But don’t tell him I said that!”

            “And Sapphire’s a bitch to everyone,” Cynric added helpfully. “And so is Vex.  Unless you bring in lots of gold, that is.”

            “Oh goodie,” Knife remarked, setting her bag on the free bed.  There was a chest nearby, but somehow, it didn’t seem right filling it with her stuff.  _It’ll feel like home soon…_ she thought to herself with a small sigh. _Even if it does smell kind of funky down here…_ She glanced over her shoulder at the two boys. “Know anything about the Goldenglow Estate?  That’s my next job.”

            Cynric and Rune exchanged glances. “No,” Cynric admitted, “Or… not much.  Vex could tell you more.  But she’s out right now.  I think she had another job to do.”

            “Oh, well, I wasn’t going to go until tomorrow,” Knife replied with a shrug.  She winced, a string of pain running through her shoulder and into her neck. _Stupid bitch.  I hope she didn’t jack up my shoulder…_

            “You look pretty beat up,” Rune pointed out.

            “I got into a fight,” Knife admitted, “With Haelga.”

            “Haelga?  Like the woman who runs the bunkhouse?” Rune asked, stunned, “And you’re _alive?_ ”

            “You didn’t get any diseases, did you?  You know, from breathing in the same air…” Cynric began, laughing.

            “I hope not?” Knife asked, brows raised. “And I caught her sleeve on fire.  So I think she knows not to mess with me.” “ _Think” being the key word here…_

            “You caught her sleeve on fire?” Cynric’s eyes widened and he threw an arm amiably around Knife’s shoulder, “You’re going to fit in here, I think.  The pay can be shit, the smell can be shit, but it’s got its rewarding moments.  Like catching that bitch’s sleeve on fire- that’s pretty rewarding in _my_ book.  Better than any gold, to say the least.” She looked up at him, her smile evaporating as she stared into his pale eyes. 

            There was a look there she didn’t like, a curiosity mixed with intrigue.  His lip curled with a small smirk, and his eyes brimmed with thought.  _He looks familiar_ , thought the Breton girl with a small frown. _I’ve seen him before somewhere._ He released her, clapping her shoulder lightly.  Where he had touched her about the shoulders tingled softly, and she watched him rise from the ground. _Yes, I’ve seen him before._ But from where, she couldn’t remember.  


End file.
